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POETS  AND  POETET 


I 

!  OP 


rn 


THE   WEST. 


THE 

0 


POETS  AND  POETEY 


OP 


THE  WEST 


WITH 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES. 


BT 

WILLIAM  T.  COGGESHALL. 


**  Here  is  •  wreaOi 
With  many  mi  unripe  bkMMm  gurUnded, 
And  many  %  iraed,  yel  mlnglad  with  MnM  floif«n 
That  wiU  not  wither." 

BOUTEIT. 


COLUMBUS: 
FOLLETT,  FOSTER  AND  COMPANY. 

1860. 


4^. 


//3a>/it,/ 


iBttnd  Mtordhif  to  Aet  of  CoagrMi,  la  tbt  jm*  1880, 

Bt  WILLUM  T.  OOOOBHAU^ 

Jm  Vtm  OmlkH  (Mko  of  tb*  Dlilriei  Gout  of  tho  Ualtad  SMw  fn  tht  8oath«»  DMrki  of  OUo. 


,  fOim  *  CO.,  FtfVTffIS,  IIUHIIIIMg  A*»  HSMM, 
OOLCMBCt,  MJft. 


PREFACE. 


I 


i  This  volume  ia  the  first  of  a  series  designed  to  present  a  survey  of  Western  Liter- 
ature— to  make  known  who  have  been,  and  who  are  the  poets,  orators,  and  prose- 
writers  of  the  States*  which  comprise  what  is  properly  known,  in  American  history 
and  geography,  as  The  West ;  and  to  preserve,  in  a  form  convenient  for  reference, 
their  most  characteristic  productions. 

The  Poets  and  Poetry  op  the  West  has  been  prepared  upon  a  plan 
contemplating  not  only  the  republication  of  poems  which  have  become  celebrated, 
but  a  fair  representation  of  what  may,  not  inappropriately,  be  considered  the  respect- 
able poetical  literature  of  the  great  Central  Valley  of  the  United  States.  It 
contains  selections,  with  biographical  notices,  from  the  writings  of  ninety-seven  men 
and  fifty-five  women,  of  whom  sixty  are,  or  at  the  time  of  their  decease  were, 
residents  of  Ohio ;  twenty-three  of  Indiana ;  fourteen  of  Kentucky ;  thirteen  of 
Illinois ;  five  of  Michigan ;  four  of  Wisconsin  ;  three  of  Missouri ;  two  of  Iowa ; 
two  of  Minnesota ;  one  of  Kansas.  Among  these  poets,  sixty-nine  are  native  to  the 
geographical  division  of  the  American  Confederacy  in  which  their  fortunes  are  cast : 
to  Ohio,  thirty-nine ;  to  Kentucky,  fifteen ;  to  Indiana,  thirteen ;  to  Michigan,  one ; 
to  Llmois,  one. 

The  others  belong,  by  birth,  as  follows :  Fifteen  to  New  York,  twelve  to  Penn- 
sylvania, eight  to  Massachusetts,  eight  to  Connecticut,  seven  to  New  Hampshire,  four 
to  Maine,  four  to  Maryland,  three  to  Mississippi,  three  to  Tennessee,  three  to 
Vermont,  three  to  Virginia,  two  to  New  Jersey,  two  to  South  Carolina,  one  to 
Delaware,  one  to  Rhode  Island,  one  to  the  District  of  Columbia,  and  four  to  Great 
Britain.  The  nativity  of  three  is  unknown.  Of  the  one  hundred  and  fifty-two 
persons  whose  places  of  birth  and  residence  are  thus  analyzed,  only  twenty-eight  f 
are  known  to  be  deceased. 

*  Kentucky,  OhSo,  Indlftaa,  Bfiaaonri,  Mlchigaiif  niinoi/if  Wisconsin,  lows,  Minnesota,  Kansas. 

t  John  M.  Harney,  Thomas  Peiroe,  Jnlia  L.  Damont,  Mieah  P.  Flint,  Charles  Hammond,  Wm.  R.  Sehenck,  Lonlsa 
P.  Smith,  BtJah  P.  LoT^Joy,  Otway  Onrry,  Harrey  D.  Little,  James  H.  Perkins,  Hugh  Peters,  Thomas  H.  fhreTe, 
Charles  A.  Jones,  Amelia  B.  Welby,  Bdward  A.  M'Laufhlin,  Lanra  M.  Thurston,  Bleanor  P.  Lee,  Horace  0.  Uinor, 
Smelioe  H.  Johnson,  Mary  S.  Fee  Shannon,  Benjamin  T.  Gushing,  Jolm  Q.  Dunn,  Qeorge  T.  Welbom,  Mary  Wilson 
Betts,  M.  Louisa  Chitwood,  John  T.  Swarts,  Harriet  M.  Howe. 

(V) 


PREFACE. 


Not  more  than  ten  of  the  writen  herein  represented  can  be  classed  as  literary 
men  and  women  in  that  sense  which  conveys  tlie  idea  of  the  pursuit  of  literature 
as  a  profession.  The  poets  of  the  West  are,  or  have  been,  lawyers,  doctors  teachers, 
preachers,  mechanics,  farmers,  editors,  printers,  and  housekeepers.  Tliey  liave 
written  at  intervals  of  leisure,  snatched  from  engro^^ing  cares  and  exacting  duties. 
Their  literary  labors,  consequently  desultory,  have  rarely  lM;en  given  to  elaborate 
performances,  but  rather  to  the  emotion,  the  impulse,  or  the  passion  of  the  hour ; 
and  yet  it  may  be  justly  claimed  that  this  volume  presents  a  collection  of  poem^s 
remarkable  for  variety  of  topics  and  versatility  of  treatment,  exhibiting  in  a  greater 
degree  the  feeling  than  the  art  of  poetry,  but  preserving  some  specimens  of  descrip- 
tive and  some  of  lyric  verse,  which  are  likely  to  keep  the  memories  of  their  authors 
green  for  many  generations  yet  to  come. 

In  poetry  breathing  an  earnest  spirit  of  moral  and  political  reform ;  expressing  just 
appreciation  of  material  beauty ;  revealing  domestic  affections ;  representing  noble 
aspirations  for  intrinsic  worth  and  force,  the  West  is  rich ;  but  in  humorous  poems 
(except  by  way  of  parody)  and  in  the  more  pretending  styles,  which  are  wrought 
by  elaborate  culture,  it  is  fa^rom  opulent.  The  reasons  are  obvious.  The  earliest 
poem  of  the  West  was  written  in  1780.  The  regular  chronological  order  of  this 
volume  comprises  a  period  of  only  forty  years — a  period  significant  for  perilous  wars, 
for  hard  work,  for  amaxing  enterprise ;  all  of  which  furnish  materials  for  literature, 
but,  until  the  mellowing  influences  of  time  have  long  hung  over  their  history,  repel 
poetry. 

It  has  been  the  intention  of  the  Editor  to  include  in  this  collection  every  penion, 
legitimately  belonging  to  the  West,  who  has  gained  recognition  as  a  writer  of 
reputable  verse.  lie  doubts  not  some  have  been  omitted  more  worthy  than 
some  who  are  presented ;  but  all  coming  within  the  standard  establii^ed,  of  whom 
satisfactory  information  could  be  obtained,  have  been  recorded.  Facts  calculated  to 
make  the  volume  nearer  just,  and  nearer  complete  than  it  now  is,  will  be  gratefully 
received.  The  Editor  trusts  that  a  large  number  of  fugitive  poems  peculiar  to  the 
West,  which  he  found  it  impa^ible  to  collect,  will  hereafter  be  brought  together. 

For  the  measure  of  completeness  with  which  the  Editor  has  been  enabled  to 
discharge  the  duties  he  assumed,  he  is  greatly  indebted,  for  wise  counsel  as  well  as 
valuable  assistance,  to  literary  gentlemen  in  all  parts  of  the  West ;  among  whom 
special  acknowledgments  are  due  John  P.  Foote,  N.  Peabody  Poor,  and  William 
Henry  Smith  of  Cincinnati ;  William  D.  GalUgher  and  Ben  Casseday  of  Kentucky ; 


PREFACE.  vii 


John  B.  Dillon  of  Indiana ;  Lyman  C.  Draper  of  Wisconsin ;  T.  Herbert  Whipple 
of  niinois ;  Sullivan  D.  Harris  and  A.  B.  Laurens  of  Columbus ;  John  H.  James  of 
Urbana ;  and  EEarvej  Rice  of  Cleveland,  Ohio. 

The  biographic  notices  furnish  not  merely  interesting  personal  facts,  but  will  be 
found  valuable  by  students  of  bibliography,  and  of  the  history  of  periodical  literature. 
The  aid  which  has  been  rendered  the  Editor  in  their  preparation  is  announced  in 
the  table  of  Contents. 

The  order  of  arrangement  is  according  to  the  time  when,  as  nearly  as  could  be 
ascertained,  the  respective  poets  included  were  recognized  by  the  public;  except- 
ing for  the  period  1850-60,  in  which  the  order  of  succession  is  according^ to  date 
of  birth. 

Trusting  that  his  labors  will  promote  encouragement  of  local  literature  among  the 
people  for  whom  he  has  worked,  ancMbelieving  that  what  is  here  collected  will 
enhance  respect  for  that  literature,  the  Editor  submits  this  volume  not  less  cheerfully 
to  their  discriminating  criticism  than  to  the  general  good-will,  which,  in  terms 
demanding  gratitude,  but  with  it  enforcing  embarrassment,  has  been  expressed  in 
leading  periodicals  and  newspapers.  ^ 


•    r 


^ 


# 


CONTENTS. 


mSTOEICAL  SKETCH 13 

ACAKS,  LOIS  B. 

BiooBiFino  Nond 

A  Song  for  Nsw-Ymt'b  Bre 

Boaing  Com 

The  ticlure  Bride 

Lillian  Gray 

ARET,  HANNAH  K  O. 
itiuuB-iFaic   Notice 

Thanksgiving 

The  Firemaa 

SIfigh-Ridiag 

Bome  Song '. 

Bailey  margaret  l. 

ooKjpnic   NiyrlCE    381 

Duly  and  R™«rcl Ml 

The  Paaper  Child'B  Bulla] 

Ifemories 

Eoduraiice 

Ballard.  GRAunLLE  M. 

BioCRiPBic   MoncK 6S2 

Where  I— Here 

Blood  for  Blood 663 

ZolftZoDg 

baknttz,  albert. 

BlOORAPBIO  NoTunt 

LoTC  on  the  Upland  Lea 

To  Irene 

BASRICE,  jaues  a. 

BiooKiPHic  Nonoa 

AbaeU  Friends 

The  Forert  Stream BTS 

One  Year  Ago 674 

To  ■  Poet 

BABRirr,  FRANCIS  F. 

oGBiFuic  KimL-E-OmYie /.  Viclor.... 

SODg  of  tlie  Age 

Resolotjon 612 

The  FftUce  of  ImaginatloD 


Fturing  by  BeUcon 6 

Childhood 6 

Autamnitlia 6 

A  Little  Bird  that  ereiy  one  burnt,  fi 

Waiting 6 

BATES,  LEWIS  J. 

BioaRirnii'  li.mcB 6 

The  Bridal 6 

'■•  The  Meadow  Brook 6 

The  Hapw  Tear 6 

BEEBE,  LIZZIE  G. 

BtoofUPBio  Nonc> S 

Day's  Departure 6 

The  Shadw  of  the  Old  Elm-Tre«. . .  6 
BETTS,  UAB^. 

BiooBAFBio  Nones 5 

AKi'iitiickitiuKneelatoNonebatGod  G 
DIDDLE,  HORACE  P. 

B[OOKAFHIO     NOTJCK 3 

HappyHiiure S 

The  Anuei  iind  the  Flower S 

Love  and  Wisdom 334 

Birth  of  Cupid 334 

Idoia 334 

BOLTON,  SARAH  T. 

BiooiuPHio   NnncB 387 

A«ake  to  Elllbrt 370 

Paddle  yonr  own  Canoe 371 

V^n  !(](■  Ifiill 372 

Wberf  if  Hiy  Uouio! 373 

If  I  were  the  Ught  of  the  Bri^tcst 

Star 3T4 

The  Flower  and  the  Starlight 374 

Dirge  for  the  Old  Year 374 

In  my  Sleep  I  had  a  Yi^on 3TS 

UootBlanc 37S 

Lake  Leman 376 

Hope  OD,  Hope  erer 377 

BONE,  JOHN  II,  A. 
BiooRiFHio  UrmcB—WUtiam  D.  BuitlU.  589 

The  Two  Temples 589 

New-YeaFaEre 690 


CONTENTS. 


BOSTVICK,  HELES  L. 
Bivouivtc  Notice-  WitUam  D.  Omtti.  i 

Lut  Ynrn  Nento 

The  Liitle  Coflin i 

Tho  OrigiD  of  IHinlilel i 

TooLatt! 

Somewbere 

Lnlle I 

Within  IheDni I 

Litlle  DudeUoD 

Pnee < 

Whlla  ud  B«d I 

BRANNAN,  WILLUH  P. 

I]p-«i.,™"'   N..r..-T 

TheSoal'ti  llpnnlUge 

The  Old  Cbureb  Bokd 

LortYoatli 

Rcp«DUiic« ^ 

Bomelea 

BBOOKS.  HOSES. 

Bioouraic  NoncB 

An  ApMropbe  to  %  Uaaai 

BROWNB,  EVHA  A.  ' 

Bioouniic   Nirnn— r.  Oritrt  WU/flt.  ' 

AIWM I 

Tbe  Ccnqueron 

Annlla i 

BRYANT,  JOBS  H. 

BiooBinnc  Nones 

The  lodlui  SomnMr 

Od  a  FonnUin  in  ■  Vontt 

Tb«  Blue-Bird 

Thr  BclIM- Put 

The  VilU-y  Btw* 

The  !;lir..l!l -1-1.0  to  Sight 

The  MnilKCanr.  .Song 

Sputchirlnc'i  Gts*e 

Winter 

Upward!  Onwardl 

Bl'BSETT,  ALFRED. 

l;!...,r,,nii,     S-.,T!.-v   

The  SpxIoo'i  Sp»d» 

Dear  Unlher.  wai  It  Right  t 

Mj  UotbiT 

BCBB,  CELIA  M. 

Bioasiniic  Nona 

The  Reaper* 

I-abof 

The  Snow 


Bl'SHSELL.  W1I.LIAH  H. 

BliNIIunilC    NcfTlrlt 4.^6 

ll.i.i,.,,;.!.,-,!,  iheTlde 456 

A  SODK  for  the  i'nm *i7 

;  BCTLER,  NOBLE. 

Biooiuniic  N<iTica HA 

The  mne-Blrd «« 

The  DaiiEbicr  of  Jndah lit 

Uneo  for  U  aide M6 

;  BUTI,BR.  WILLIAM  O. 

Bioanimic  Nimn ill 

The  Boatman't  Uora 173 

',  CALDWEI-L.  EI.LA. 

BioaKtniic  NoTict-Ctvla  B.  Jbrat. . .  BCT 

Judge  Not ftO 

'  CAMPBELL.  EDWIN  H. 

BiooiurBic  Nonn 189 

"  Let  there  be  Light " 189 

'  CART,  ALICE 

Bioouniir  Simct—OrrSk  J.  Ftctcr....  M3 

Ballad  of  Jrarie  Carol 34t 

Pictare*  of  Uemory M9 

llarrent  Time S50 

Lyra SSI 

ContmllcUtrj SSI 

Womhip .,,  SSS 

A  Lorer'n  Paidfme 5S3 

To  the  Harcb  Flowen SM 

Penitence SS4 

AFragtnent SU 

Faith  and  Worin 3M 

Mr  CnL-a SM 

■BlewrdLove SH 

Exinct*  Ihmi  Variotu  Poena SST 

;  CART.  PHtEBE: 

Bioounitc  NOTtCB— Onlfa  J.  Ftcttr 359 

Eriuallty S«3 

Wnrvhiplag  Ahr  Off. 3C3 

Biw»cil<d SC4 

TbeFantafy 3<i4 

Impatience 3''>.^ 

Wanb<  ami  Blfwliw 3«.'>     I 

Th"  Mind'i- ['onvMtioaa 3Ce     I 

Chriftmitx 3CC    [ 

CASE,  LCELLA  J.  B. 


Tlj.'  Ii,.ll,.i.  IMk. 


Drath  Leading  Age  to  Repow 3*2 


CHAJfBERLIN,  CAKOUNB  A. 

Biooupmo  KonoB 460 

The  Hidden  Life 460 

The  Sonaof  Art 460 

APictnre 461 

TheSool'sTisiUuitR 462 

To  •  Mobs  Plant 462 

CHASE,  SALMON  P. 

Bioaupgic  Notiot—  Wm.  D.  OaUaghtr. .   167 

neSlBte™ 170 

1  To  a  SUr ITl 

TlienKH 171 

CHTTWOOD,  M.  LOUISA. 

Bioourmc  Nones 62S 

The  Two  PoemB 628 

Tbe  Oraves  or  the  Flowen 630 

The  Seurutreai 631 

Bow  to  None  but  God 631 

SereoBde 632 

Thftt  Little  Hand 632 

The  Eobln'B  Soag 633 

The  Two  VmcoB 633 

CIST,  LEWIS  J. 

fiiooRiFBio  Nones 337 

Olden  Uemories 338 

To  My  Mother 338 

Love  at  Auction 339 

Ohio's  Pil),Tim  Band 340 

The  BUnd  Girl  to  her  SiEler 341 

The  Beaten  Path 342 

CLAEK,  LOELLA. 

BiiKrau>Dia   Nonoi 676 

1  Stood  Beneath  Qtj  Bonglu 676 

Up  the  Hill  A-Ber^Dg 676 

COSBY,  FORTDNATUS. 

BiooBiFHio  Konci! 272 

The  Solitary  Fonntidn 272 

To  the  Mocking-Bird ZT4 

Song Mfi 

Fir«Mde  Fancies 27S 

First  Love 276 

CKOWELL,  GEOBGE  W. 

ooK-ti'Hic  ^'iTit^iL—B.ESHardOuatr...  648 

OorSirea 648 

VenuB 648 

Lookup 649 

CCBET,  OTWAT. 

DiooBAPBTC  Notice — E^itard  Thwwn. . .  88 

The  MinBlnL'l'B  Home 97 

To  My  Mollier 97 

The  Bloawnu  of  Lift 96 


Antnuu)  MnslngB., 

TLi?  EicniBl  RiTer 99 

Kingdom  Cof! 

The  Annieg  of  the  Eve 100 

The  Belter  I^nd 

The  Gi/ings  Forth  of  God.. 
The  Groat  Bi-reonei- 
LinuB  of  tbp  Life  to  Come.. 

Chaeldine 

Extracts  nrom  the  "Lore  or  the  Part"  104 
Tbe  Lost  Pleiad.. 
Adjuratioo.       ... 
To  a  Midnight  1 

The  Ciodng  Year. . 

Aaven 108 

CUETISS,  ABBY  A. 
BiooftApmo  Nonoi 

The  Heart's  Conflict. . 

Woric  with  a  WiU 441 

CUSHiNG.  tlEKJAMIN  T, 
BiooiUTBio  Ni)TiCK— //enn/  B.  Oarnaglim  489 

Lay  of  the  Improvisatrlce 491 

Complaint  of  the  Deaf  ud  Dnmb. . .  493 

The  PAt 

I  do  not  Love  Thee.. 

The  Past 496 

CUTTER,  GEORGE  W. 

Ciooiurmc  Kotick — Oattet  Bim^,. 

Song  of  Steam 

Ni'vi'r    Ntvcr     

K  riuri'MiB  Unum 

BnenaYlgta 

ThaPreBg 

Siiaf  <i\  Lightning 

ToAithea 

Farewell  to  the  Lyre 

DENTON,  WILLIAM. 

J'MIAT'ITIC    IJOTICE 468 

Thoughts 

The  Real  and  the  Ideal. . 

Blind  Workers 469 

DILLON,  JOHN  B. 

Mi».u-[i[r  NijTiPB 109 

The  Prophet's  Draam 110 

Burial  of  the  Beantiltl Ill 

The  Funeral  of  the  Year Ill 

The  Orphan's  Harp 112 

Staosas 112 

DINNIEH,  ANNA  P. 
Beoorafhic  NoncE^A^.  SL  Jaaa  Fry.   198 
My  Husband's  First  Gray  Hair 199 


CONTENTS. 


Waddtd  Lore Itm 

The  ViU.         JOO 

ruhjlil  F«Uii«i iOO 

DOWNS,  CORA  H. 

Uioiiainiic  S'.jTic« BTS 

TlwOld  Bn-Trae £73 

TbeS^rirtCdJ 671 

DRAKE,  CEABLE3  D. 

bKMilumiu  NoTld. 1(0 

WlMtbUbt Ul 

To)ln.Q.  F.  lUnh 143 

ijivv't  Cunittancf H2 

DBAKB,  JAHB3  0. 

nio.jK*ni(.;  N-nioB !M 

Parlei  Bu 264 

DUFFIELD,  D.  BfTBUNE. 

mn.m.niic  S'<mi-|i-^aiBa  S.  Hul *!« 

TheMoklo/ClMln'Hiat 4i» 

The   ilarnlog^ilnrj *i9 

KMvwtU                     «9 

Bu-tb'<  MoUht-Lotv *W 

TIkSmuhUiisSm 430 

A£*bbitli6unMl  Pi»7«r.f 430 

A1111JV1TM17  Oile 431 

DTTPOUR.  AMANDA  L.  R. 

Biooiurnic  Nonci-AeA^iUfOMiM...  404 

Tkoa  OubM  Not 40C 

Thought 40T 

Bv-GoM  Buun *0T 

Bjma 407 

B«Teri«i 40W 

CooTivdoD 404 

TrtboU  to  HunboUt <io 

DUMONT,  JCLIA  L. 

Bl..ijil.m]il-  .\>n-u«-r*.™uJf.  m*...  1:1 

Porertj 41; 

Tbc  Motfcer  to  b«r  D7I0K  Infut. ...  *r. 

Tbe  Paopn  10  tlM  Rich  Hu 4: 

To  the  Hooa 4H 

Tfa«ThBiid«r  SUra fj 

TtM  Futon  Life vj 

The  Orphui  btgnwt .'1 1 

Tbe  Toanliia :■) 

ThtBoDtt-BoudOrMka r-i 

Uj  DMigfatar  Nun M 

DUNN.  JOHN  G. 

BioouPBic  Noncm— .4trttn  Biomm S.17 

Tb'.'r>"nttior  ibi' Iiicbrttta -037 

Spirit  uf  Fknhi|iuke MO 

ACUU'iTboa(bt Ml 


Tb«  ?jiivSU Ml 

The  Nunc  lo  tbe  Air Ml 

Who'll  U  tbe  Nut  to  Ht US 

DTER.  SU>SET. 

BioiiiDiiii^  Nnnci ST8 

i^'in^- .rftbeSanbean S7I 

Tl»'  KTenlng  ZepfaTT S7t 

To  ...  Ah«M.-nl  Wife 9M 

Th-I^-nf-  i'.rai.l,.inl 3W 

Ii;i  MieNtU  o(itlwB««d 381 

M}  M'lUwT'lEH;rauir 381 

tViuiiy  t)..m.-     SW 

^TliiBclin  Late  thM  N«T«r 381 

PuWCT  of  t^ng 981 

EARLE.  AlBTIN  T. 
BiouKJF'Ui'-  N»rH-K  -A^'.  a.  /omi  JVy.  411 

Till-  WlDtcr  NIcfat,  'Ua  Dimi? 421 

A  Maf  Soog 411 

Thr  Kilr  PcnIleDt 411 

To  Mv  BrolhCT  Maa 411 

W,n-;n*»rUH»dWe 413 

Pl..>  Song 413 

EBEBilAfiT.  ISA  A 

Bl<»iK.<-)IIJ    tiOTKM M4 

(.iiil)  On«Left 6M 

Kn»:i.ent M4 

EOWAHI>^:.  BLUAB  B. 

Biooainiia   Nonoi «!• 

LriyeR«it •» 

-AikITU^h!" eiT 

The  Thnw  t'livmla «17 

ELLSWOinil,  UENRY  W. 

BiiKimniii'   Ni.rrm       Sl< 

T.)t«Al— -jl  Wifr 316 

n,.  1-h..l.m  King SIT 

N.->  MngUod 318 

KVF:!!>n\,  WILLIAM  D. 

Ilio-iiriniiC    NuTHX XS4 

Ir  ilifOhIo  Bifer WB 

Tti-   Hill* 184 

Whnnre  tbePrwr IM 

Ti,  >  Locn«-Tf«e 181 

.siifuhlne 18T 

WholiRichr W8 

Tti.-  Wert  Wd 

T)k  |l]rlD«8alnt 188 

EVERTS,  ORPBEUS. 
Uiooiuniia  Nonw— r.  dr4»<  Wiiffk. .  Ml 

TJb»» M6 

Thr  Dewl M6 

UewtHdSod M« 


CONTENTS. 


Pag* 

MnterRain 646 

Extracts  from  "  Onaweqaah  " 647 

FWLBY,  JOHN. 

BiooRAFHio  NoncB 83 

To  Indians 84 

The  Hooeier's  Nest 84 

A  Wife  Wanted 86 

Bachelor's  Hall 86 

To  my  Old  Coat 86 

To  a  Skeleton 87 

What  is  Faith? 87 

FLAGG,  EDMUND. 

Biographic  Notick • 201 

Smiles  Oft  Deceive 202 

The  Magnetic  Telegraph 202 

FLINT,  MICAH  P. 

BI061UFHI0  NoncB 66 

Extracts  from  the  ''Hunter" 66 

The  Mounds  of  Cahotda 67 

The  Warrior's  Execution 68 

The  Camp  Meeting 69 

The  Silent  Monks 62 

The  Beech  Woods 63 

The  Shodionee  Martyr 64 

On  Passing  the  Grave  of  my  Sister. .  67 

FOSDICK,  WHJLIAM  W. 

BiooRAFHio  NoncE — M,  D,  Chweaif 471 

TheMaize 472 

The  Catawba 473 

The  Pawpaw 474 

Light  and  Night 476 

Woods  of  the  West 476 

Lute  and  Love 476 

FOSTER,  MART  A. 

Biographic  Notice 449 

Hymn  to  the  Stars 449 

Summer 460 

The  Battle-Field  of  Truth 461 

Song 462 

FRY,  BENJAMIN  ST.  JAMES. 

Biographic  Nones 467 

Droop  Not 467 

Say,  I  Love  Him  Yet 468 

On  the  Death  of  an  Infant 468 

GAGE,  FRANCES  D. 

Biographic  Notice — Suttioan  D,  Barrit, .  S93 

The  Sounds  of  Industry 894 

A  Home  Picture 896 

The  Housekeeper's  Soliloquy 396 

Life's  Lessons 396 

My  Fiftieth  Birthday 397 


Pag* 
GALLAGHER,  WILLIAM  D. 

Biographic  Notice 132 

Autumn  in  the  West 137 

August...  138 

May 139 

The  Mothers  of  the  West 140 

Song  of  the  Pioneers 141 

Truth  and  Freedom 142 

The  Laborer 142 

The  Land  of  Life 143 

The  Spotted  Fawn 144 

TheArtisan 146 

Conservatism 146 

Radicalos '. 147 

TheBetterDay 148 

OurChildren 149 

A  Hymn  of  the  Day  thai  is  Dawning  149 

Dandelions 160 

Noctes  Divinorum 161. 

Harvest  Hymn 162 

<<When  Last  the  Maple  Bud  was 

Swelling" 162 

The  West 162 

My  Fiftieth  Year 163 

GILMORE,  WILLIAM  E. 

Biographic  Nones 463 

Destruction  of  the  Priesthood  of  Baal  463 

O,  I  Was  Happy  Yesternight 466 

'  Lines  Written  on  Mount  Logao 466 

Yon  Brook  Hath  Waters  Pearly  Bright  466 

GORDON,  JONATHAN  W. 

Biographic  Notice 424 

A  Song  fbr  New  Yean 424 

Pale  Star 426 

In  Crowds,  and  yet  Sadly  Alone  ....  426 
To  Viola,  in  Heav^i 427 

GREGG,  THOMAS. 

Biographic  Notice 238 

Song  of  the  Winds 238 

Song  of  the  Whippowil 239 

The  Battle  of  the  Right 239 

GRIFFITH,  MATTIE. 

Biographic  Notice 601 

Close  of  the  Year 601 

Leave  Me  to  Myself  To-Nigfat 602 

HALL,  JAMES. 

Biographic  Notice 71 

The  Indian  Maid's  Death>Song 72 

Wedded  L^jfc's  First  Home 73 

Can  Years  of  SuiTering  ? 73 


J 


« 

CONTENTS. 

B«j»o«l 

U-IKSSY.  JOHN  IL 

....      68 
....     70 

UOWELLS.  WILLIAM  D. 

TlieM(«e« 

Dt«i 

.  ns 

TWI^v«r1>*«M 

n^boMKl  lb*  Lone 

•n«ww>p«u 

....   n 

....     M 

..  .   » 

....     30 

Tbe  I'ort'»  Friendi 

The  BoboUoki  >n  Sioftni 

Samnier  DeMl 

.  S81 

HOYT.  ELIZABETO  0. 
Bioowrare  KoncB-L.  D.  JfcCfab. . . . 

A  Hjmn  of  Old  Age 

October 

An  Ode  for  lb.  New  Y«*r 

H-VKXttY,  WILUAM  W, 

....  S34 

.  »7T 

TWBitrMBof. 

....  «» 

TheT^.™tiiuuJttnu 

.  &T8 

The  Si*[.T>— .F.Llc 

.  at 

ThtaLitUeUfc 

HUBBABD,  WaLLIAlL 
Ili^iiuiiuc  Xinum—  ffUft—  Lamrmm. 
Al  thetintevTSliDoa  R«otoa... 

TlKinoar^rfTrittmph 

Zich»rjT»jIor 

ASonf  tortbeFuncT 

.  ftIS 

.  444 
.  445 
.  44« 
.  44( 
.  44( 
.  447 
.  448 

.  411 
.  411 
.  411 
.  41S 

.  41) 

.  389 
.  30S 

.  SS» 

.  390 

■B  43S 
.  4M 
.  437 

.  437 
.  43S 

.  COS     ' 

■z ' 

IHRKW.  SlU.tV.VS  R 

V  !4v*i«  Hit  <.>U> 

'^•M^vf  ik»tUr««rtM« 

...  401 
....  401 
....  401 

The  Printer 

lUIUkVltlS  OAKKIK  A 

Utile  Willie 

HUNT,  JEDEDIAH. 

U.oua^ruic  S-.JIH-* 

T(.fWllU.i.l,ja,.:  Spring 

Tolln-Qm*ii<.rKi(^t 

The  ITum»nS.«I     

ih<4t,  vmutui  W. 

...  441 
....  44J 

JEWETT.  SUSAN  W. 
Biooiuniie  Notio 

t.  ,. ,-, -^  S-.i,. 

...  US 

MjUoOKt 

JOHSSOS,  EMELINB  H. 

MjChiid        

TbeldojcfclfrtBeqntrt 

TbeVwi 

J0BN80H,  ROSA  V. 
BmaurmKKmcm 

kt«l«t«tt)r 

...  M4 

M\'ili»l,  HAHKIKT  H. 

U\kWM,  MHAtl  J. 

■  t^               " 

Til  r  niiriTiiiwi 

iwa  lUlljr  Ihiwa 

ii.«<>M  xrnMkMoMi 

....  su 

....  SM 

One  Somnrl^l, 

ThflUdnbrht  Pnver 

CONTKNTa 


JONES,  CHABLE9  A. 
BcooRiPQir  Xoni-E— ffm.  D.  OaBagtar.. 

The  Pioneers 

The  Old  Mound 

TheDeaerted  Forge 

The  Clouds 

Teeanueh 

Knowledge 

JLXIAN   ISAAC  11. 
B:oaHAri!ic  Kotjcte 

Booae  ia  tbe  Wild«raen 

The  True  Pacific  Line 

To  tbe  Genius  of  the  West 

eestos  william  a. 
Bioqbjovio  Notice 

To  Ibe  Baltimore  Oriole 

CtmUod 

KKNET    COATES. 
BioGRApinc  Notice— Lacu  A.  Snt 

Eitracls  friim  "Tteeuka  " 

R^  on  the  Roof 

Hie  Heroes  of  Ihe  Pen 

Mother  of  Glory 

The  Eden  of  Wishes 

Ecania  i^tuart  ...>>•'' 

lUnnehahft 

OnJ  Si^tOal 

OoMsrriage 

Discontent 

UWS,  CORNELIA  W. 

BlMBJFUJC  tiOTKE^C/iautUXIjy.OUt... 

The  Emplj  Cliair 

SiiUttle  Fcvt  on  the  Fender 

Behind  the  Post 

The  Sliadov    

LEE,  ELEANOR  P. 
BroniuFBic  NcmcB 

To  the  Slormy-Pettrl 

TbeNitchez  Light-House 

Tbs  SuD^trock  Eagle 

LITTLE.  IIARYEY  D. 
BiooBAPHiL'  SinicE^Wm.  D.  OoBa^tr.. 

Aitmj,  Aw*T,  I  Scorn  Tliem  All 

The  Wanderer's  Return 

OnJadsh'a  HilU 

LOCKE.  FRANCE3«; 

BlOORlFHIC  NuncB 

Be  Connideniitp 

The  True  Life 

To  Till 

The  Dsj's  Boriol 


LOGAN,  CORNELTCS  A. 

'"iiiAi-iric  NnncB 

The  MloUssippi 

LOVEJOT,  ELIJAH  P. 

BiooRiPHic  NoncB 

My  Mother 

The  Wsndcrer 

,  LTTLE,  WILLIAM  H. 

BlOIlRAFHIO  NOTIC'B — Ciut.J.  Rdv. .  . 

Aiilouy  und  Clfopatrs 

MacDoimtd's  Drummer 

Th-  Yiilunti-ere 

I>«at,.|>.>ll      

IlripaiHlV  Song 

Sailing  on  the  Se« 

Aoscreontlo 

Jacqaeline 

,  M'AVOr,  MART  R.  T. 

BiooupBiD  Nonci 

Mftdeldne    

Serenade  

It  U  Uie  Winter  of  tbe  Tew 

I  MACCLOT,  D.  CARLYLR 

BiooRAPBio  Nonci 

A  Fragment 

Tbe  Maquis 

M'GAFFET,  LOUISA  A. 

notuPDia  NoTiCB— ITm.  B.  3mA.. 

The  Hill-Top 

Moroiog  in  tbeCaty 

Tim  IIiirvcBt-Moon 

MXAHGHLIM,  EDWABD  A. 

OlilUnHC     NOTTCE     

ToCincianaU 

Harvest  SoDg 

MARSHALL,  JAMES  B. 

BioflRiFsio  Notice 

To  Era :  In  her  AHhuq .'. 

[  HEAD,  JANE  M. 

BioaniFDTO  Norto 

National  Ode 

Our  Native  Land 

1  MINOB,  HORACE  8. 

BioGiUPBic  Nones— ^iH<m  T.  Earlt. , 
A  Nympb  was  Daactng  on  a  Strei 
TheHoricof  a  Dream 


e                                                          C0NTBHT8. 

HOBBIS,  SAMUEL  T. 

BwaKiniic   SV.T1CK 

BTribntCnaia 

HTER,  CABOLINB. 

PNT* 

(TS 

6(3 
fits 
&M 

<n 

ITS 
ITS 
tM 
480 
481 
4S1 
481 

tM 

m 

»2 
193 

IM 

m 

m 

19S 
IM 
300 
300 
300 
301 

»7> 
ITS 

uo 

•43 
*43 

844 
844 

8W 
8» 

sa 

38 
38 
3> 
40 
if 

PENNOCK,  CAHRIE  0. 

•^ 

PERKIN-S.  JAMES  E. 

Th<i.«L»l',»-LsD>lof  tiMHeut.... 
Up  knd  Down  tb*  BIU 

NEALT,  HART  E. 
Bioaunno  Himim-Jimalkm  W.  GtriM 

:^|-.irilFiiilCr,-«-ncc 

TheMnil'ij.  Kmvc 

.  IM 
.   U8 

Poverty  kod  Kuiwltdg* 

Song 

On  the  Dtath  or  ■  Toons  OilU.  „ 
My  Pntore 

.   ISI 
.   180 
.   IM 
.  Kl 
.  1«I 
.  181 

K   Its 

.  183 

.  184 

.   188 
.   IM 
.   IM 

.  m 

.  m 

.  4S5 

.  484 

.  4»4 
.  489 

.  88S 
.  t8S 
.  (M 
.  888 

.   887 
.   88T 
.  MS 
.   8M 

.  Ml 

.  &8t 
.  604 
.  US 
.  M< 

.  348 
.  &4S 

.  H) 

.  64> 

•ntSWn 

To»L.dy 

CoTMt 

DoILoreHInt 

Muiinelle 

To»Cliild 

The  Voloe  thM  B^  the  D«ad  Ari 
Byma 

NICB0L8,  BEBBOCA  8. 

IIio.it(i.i'«[.-  N.,ri.i[— A-U.™  D.  Barrk. 

PETERS,  HUGH. 

M-  N;.-ii.I.iir»l 

ThePwtlDg 

The  PUlraopbM' Ti»d 

The  Lort  Bool 

PETERSON,  WnjJAH  & 

WeeWlIUe 

PUTT,  ABRAM  a 

8«W 

T»-D«y 

Slng.Crteket 

DMt 

PIATT,  JOHK  J. 

OLITEB,  SOPHIA  H. 

R^~1«. 

The  SlruiiK-  OrRimil»t— A  Prrtoda. 

Mark  the  Bonn  UuU  SUm 

PABKEB,  BENJAKIN  8. 

MooorlM 

PortKript 

TwoKlngi 

PLIMPTON,  FLOBDB  R 
Bioauraic  Santm—Wm.  T.  Bm»m. . 
TheO»k 

PAREEB,  ELVIRA. 

EoIIm 

FHRCE.  THOMAS. 

POWERS.  HORATIO  N. 
BuKuuuvic  Vimm 

TheDMdy 

To^Udy 

The  ADBel'i  Bridge 

ThePUherBoy 

/ 


CONTENTS. 

9 

FRBNTIOE,  GEORGE  D. 

BuMSiTHic  tioncE—Wm.  W.  JbafU. . . 
The  Dead  Uarina 

121 
129 
129 
124 
12B 
127 
127 
128 
.  129 
130 
131 
131 

B71 

.  671 

BTl 

.  fi7a 

.  672 

.  <13 
.  414 
.  414 
.  415 
.  416 
.  416 

.  266 
.  2S6 
.  2S6 
.  167 
.  26T 
.  268 
36S 
.  26S 
.  269 

.  616 
.  616 
.  617 
.  617 

.  691 
.  691 
.  692 
.  692 

.  688 
.  688 

HOUSE,  ERA8TUS  S.  8. 

PH. 

234 
914 

Si4 

603 
603 
804 
604 

74 
74 
76 
76 
76 
76 

469 
470 
470 

622 
622 

646 
645 
646 
646 
647 
647 

174 
177 
177 
178 
179 
179 
180 
181 
182 
182 
183 

77 
77 
T7 

78 

612 
612 

Nothing 

KUBLEE,  UOilACE, 
ISioijiuPuiP   Notice 

The  Flight  Of  Ta«* 

Written  »t  H;  Mother's  Gnve 

ToM«ry 

SCIIENCK,  WILLIAM  E. 

To  M  Abwnt  mfe 

x'vguh 

Soidde 

PUMHILL,  JAKES. 

SlOORlPHTO    N'oncB 

Embkin  <if  feoce 

TolUry 

ASwnmer  MomiDg 

Indian  Death  Song 

FricDdf-bip,  Love  and  Beralf 

SHANNON,  MAET  R  FEE. 

BlOOEiFHIO    NOTICB 

Never  Stop  to  Look  Bahiixl  Yoo. . . 

AWish 

BHAW,  FRANCES  A. 
Bioouraic   Notice— 7!  mrteri  Wh^jXt 
Minnehaha 

8H0ET,  MART  A. 

SEED,  PBTEE  F. 

BiMmiraio  NoncK 

It  i.  Lore 

The  Hctow  on  tt«  W»U 

DelluB  Mid  Dimea 

UCRHAEVET. 

Another  Tear 

G<M1B  Home 

Litae  Nell  Wood 

Appreciation 

May 

8HBETE,  THOMAS  a 
BiooBuaio  NoTiCB— Wm.  D.tUl^tir. 
IHavenoWife 

The  Fw  Wert 

TheVWoiBry 

The  Birth  of  Bewity 

ACoDoeK 

The  Moral  Hero 

Hereafter 

Eitr«ct&om"Mt.Tenion" 

SICE,  ROSEZ.LA. 

Charlie  Loe 

The  Nig^t-WlDd's  Berel 

S^ts  of  the  Wlldwood 

The  D«ed  Up 

To  Mj  Steed 

To  on  Indinn  Monnd 

Youth's  Vision  of  the  FntnrB 

B0BEBT8,  ANNA  R. 

L«  BeUe  WTiere 

ASimilB 

BeSectioni  of  u  Aged  noneer. . . . 
SMITH,  SABAH  L.  P. 

AThonght 

BOBINSON,  ALTIN. 

Iii,.,ii..;-iii.-    N..tu-E 

STEWART,  GORDON  A. 
BiooBiFBic  Notice— Tnuiam  i>.  .SEhkUi 
The  Spirit-Bride 

Sammer  on  the  Pnlriw 

10 

CONTENTS. 

Jam 

After-Bloom 

6UTL1FFE,  ALBEKT. 

Biouuraio  Nona 

Relnwpection 

H>7H>»it 

June 

October 

The  Chnreh 

SWABTZ,  JOHV  T. 

Hioantruic  Nurm 

Tbera  AK  DO  Ti-nn  In  Hmtw  . 
£)'VU1».  l-EYTON  S. 

....  613 
....   613 

....  595 
....  S»5 
....  696 
....  597 
...697 
....  598 
....  SS9 

....  656 
....  658 

I>.wn 

..  (18 

TRUESDELL.  HELEN. 
Biociiumic   N./rici 

..  M4 

TVNG.  HATTie 
BioaiuPHic  Nonce— &  D.  Cfante 

..  fM 

VICKBOY,  LOIISE  E. 

];l., .,■->■:,     V,,,,.     c^^Emi^... 

..  m 

The  Snmnur  Slorm 

Shruio»-Light 

VICTOR,  METTA  V. 
BiooiUPBic  Nnricm 

..  G61 
..  MI 

..  MS 

Bodj.DdSool 

The  WEoe  of  rununu 

The  T-..|',VluP.^ 

Then  11. -IT  kl.- 

CompoaDd  iDlcnit 

Lo»e 

VTNING,  FAMELIA  & 

..  610 
..  611 

..  sa 

..  614 
..  61« 

..  6M 

I'Mlic  AdilK« 

TATLOR.  BENJAMIN  F. 

BiooKirsio  NoncB 

RhjiDMof  Ifaa  RiTcr 

....     W 

....  416 
....  416 

..   .   419 

IJi.t  Bl.-«oiir.^Uri. 

TBOKAS,  FREDERICK  W. 

nimminri.     N.-n.r     

Eitr»cU  from  the  ■■  Emignnl " 

....419 
....  «0 

....   164 
..,,   IBS 

WALKER.  JAMES  B. 

Tbcinwwd  Lire!!'.'.'."!!!!!!!! 

H..'.\:,..-.l\i'l.l.jKl 

WALLACE.  SARAH  E. 

Biouiijmtc  Kiinnt 

The  r«tKT  of  Llttl*  Pert 

The  SinKing  Tree 

WALLACE.  WILLIAM  R. 

..  •» 

..  m 

..   ITI 
..  ITS 

..  m 

..  614 

..  114 

Til  Said  that  AI«eDce  Conqum 
Wheo  tboD  wert  Tnie 

Lore  190 
....   190 

Eilncli 

TDOIIAS.  LEWIS  F. 
Biooiuraio  N«nc« 

....   190 
....  143 

M.inorT IM 

LoTe'i  Argomeot 146 

THURSTON,  LAl-RA  M. 

DiWDUTBio  N'.'ri'-K  -  fi^.i  Sl  Jamm  f^y,  150 

4"lu<.-ti™fiK  iJi"  All.'KlJ»i>i<* 160 

Thel'sUi-ff  I.vf"          ISl 

ThcGiT«nH<lliofM7F«(her-Ua<l.  £52 
I  F«r  not  Thj  Frowo 153 

I>ukl  Boooe 

[*.«,i:..r ,.  L.j(    

Tbie<.;™i.l..,r->(  Repo* 

I>iiljliiS..rr..>.    

tl- Ila.*.W  I.- hii  Dying  Wife  . 

Automn 

Th^  Godo  of  Old 

Iljrmnof  tbeButti 

..  na 

..   119 

..  m 

..  190 
..   UO 
..  131 
..  131 
..  133 
..  133 

TRL-E.  GEORGE. 
Bioaiuraic  Nimne 

....  «1B 

The  North  Bdd. 

Tbr  Amnicu  Buucr 

..  t3« 

..  13T 

CONTENTS 


VASD,  JAHE3  W. 

BioGRAFQiG  Nonce 

Song  of  the  MoBqnito. !58 

The  Word  of  Promise 

Aahunn  Song 

magara 260 

Childish  Wiadom 

The  Su[it)eam 

Epigrsm 

WABFIELD,  CATHARINE  A. 

BioofuPBic  Notice  

The  Reluro  toAHblarid 320 

The  Atlantic  Telegraph 321 

The  Shadow  of  a  Tomb 

Spring  TLundfr 

The  Same  Calm  Brow 324 

Never,  aa  I  Have  Loved  Thee 324 

^TI,BOEN   GEOHGE  T. 

EtoaBU^icNoTiOE— l^ramiTi^itBsBitnf.  GST 

The  Captive  Boy 

Voice  of  Other  Dajs MS 

WELBT,  AWBT^rA  B. 

BtoUHAPSlc  Notice— £m  Oauaiaf/ 209 

The  B^nbow 213 

The  Presence  of  God 2U 

Pnlplt  Eloquence 218 

The  Little  StepSoD 217 

To  a  Se^Shell 218 


The  Old  Uald 

May 

The  Den-Drop 

TheSiLiumer  Birds 

The  Mournful  Heart 

The  Goldea  Ringlet 

WHTETLESET,  MARY  H. 
BiooRAFHic  NonoB—  Wm,  D.  .SEmmUi.  . 

Hemlock  Hollow 

The  Woodman's  Ax 

Juliette 

NolTet 

WILSON,  OBED  J. 

BiooKu^io  Nona 

The  Stan 

Lit^— AJovrner 

WOOD,  JULIA  A. 

Bioniui-mi-  Notice 

Her  Glove 

Prayer  for  My  Dying  ChlH 

There  laalight 

WRIGHT,  NATHANIEL. 
BiooBiFHio  Nonci 

ToaFly 

The  UouDtain  Storm 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH. 


The  men  who  began  the  settlement  of  the  North-West,  on  the  Ohio  river,  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Muskingum,  in  1788,  were  men  of  culture;  and,  while  cheerfullj 
undertaking  the  perils  and  deprivations  incident  to  a  wilderness  traversed  by  Indians, 
thej  provided  that  the  refinements  of  art  and  literature  should  not  altogether  be 
denied  them.  The  social  and  national  festivals,  which  they  had  been  accustomed  to 
observe  in  New  England,  whence  they  had  emigrated,  were  maintained  in  their  forest 
town.  At  Marietta  the  earliest  orations  and  the  earliest  poems,  as  well  as  the  first 
civil  laws  of  the  West,  were  produced.  The  hunters  of  Kentucky  had,  no  doubt, 
snatches  of  rude  song  in  which  their  heroic  deeds  were  celebrated ;  and,  no  doubt, 
earlier  than  the  year  1789,  leaders  among  them  often  made  stirring  addresses  ;  but 
the  pioneer  attentions  to  what  may  justly  be  claimed  as  Western  Literature,  were 
given  at  the  first  settlement  made  in  the  Ohio  Company's  purchase. 

At  a  celebration,  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  1789,  at  Marietta,  Return  Jonathan 
Meigs^  pronounced  an  oration  which  concluded  with  the  following  lines,  descriptive 
of  the  Ohio  YaUey  as  it  then  appeared,  and  as  it  was  destined  to  become : 

Enough  of  tributary  praise  is  paid. 
To  yirtoe  living,  or  to  merit  dead. 
To  happier  themes,  the  rural  muse  invites, 
To  cahnest  pleasnres,  and  serene  delights. 
To  U8,  glad  fancy  brightest  prospects  shows ; 
Rejoicing  nature  all  around  us  glows : 
Here  late  the  savage,  hid  in  ambush,  lay. 
Or  roamed  th'  oncultored  valleys  for  his  prey  ; 
Here  jfh)wned  the  forest  with  terrific  shade  ; 
No  coltored  fields  exposed  the  opening  glade. 
How  changed  the  scene !    See  nature  clothed  in  smiles 
With  joy  repays  the  laborer  for  his  toils ; 
Her  hardy  gifts  rough  industry  extends, 
The  groves  bow  down,  the  loffy  forest  bends ; 
On  every  side  the  cleaving  axes  sound — 
The  oak  and  tall  beech  thunder  to  the  ground : 

And  see  the  spires  of  Marietta  rise, 
And  domes  and  temples  swell  into  the  skies  ; 
Here  justice  reign,  and  foul  dissension  cease. 
Her  walks  be  pleasant,  and  her  paths  be  peace. 

1  Than  an  attorney  at  law  in  liarietta ;  in  1808,  Chief  Jnstice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Ohio ;  in  1804,  Command- 
•Dt  of  the  United  States  troops  in  the  upper  district  of  Louisiana ;  in  1806,  one  of  the  Judgce  of  the  Tbrritorj 
of  LonidaDa ;  in  1807,  one  of  the  Judges  of  the  Territory  of  Bfichlgan ;  in  ISOSy  elected  Supreme  Judge  for  Ohio ; 
fai  1809,  chosen  United  States  Senator  from  Ohio  ;  in  1810,  elected  Goremor  of  Ohio ;  and  in  1814,  appointed  Post- 
naster  General  of  the  United  States.    He  died,  at  Harietta,  March  twenty-ninth,  1825,  aged  sixty  years. 

(13) 


14    •  HISTORICAL   SKETCH. 

Here  swift  MoBkingiim  rolls  his  rapid  waves  ; 
There  Ihiitftil  ralleys  fair  Ohio  laves ; 
On  its  smooth  surface  geotle  zephjrs  play, 
The  sanbeains  tremble  with  a  placid  ray. 
What  future  harvests  on  his  bosom  glide, 
And  loads  of  commerce  swell  the  *'  downward  tide," 
Where  MissisFippi  joins  in  lengthening  sweep, 
And  rolls  majestic  to  the  Atlantic  deep. 

Along  oar  banks  see  distant  villas  spread  ; 
Here  waves  the  com,  and  there  extends  the  mead  : 
Here  sound  the  marmurs  of  the  gurgling  rills ; 
There  bleat  the  flocks  upon  a  thousand  hills. 
Fair  opes  the  lawn— the  fertile  fields  extend, 
The  kindly  flowers  fh>m  smiling  heaven  descend ; 
The  skies  drop  fatness  on  the  blooming  vale ; 

*  From  spicy  shrubs  ambrosial  sweets  exhale  ; 

Fresh  fhkgrance  rises  from  the  floweret's  bloom. 
And  ripening  vineyards  breathe  a  **  glad  perfume." 
Gay  swells  the  music  of  the  warbling  grove, 

And  all  around  is  melody  and  love. 

Here  may  religion  fix  her  blessed  abode, 
Bright  emanation  of  creative  God  ; 
Here  charity  extend  her  liberal  hand. 
And  mild  benevolence  overspread  the  land  ; 
In  harmony  the  social  rirtues  blend  ; 
Joy  without  measure,  rapture  without  end ! 

A  printing-pre88  had  been  established  at  Lexington,  Kentucky,  in  1787,  on  whidi 
a  weekly  newspaper  was  printed,^  and,  in  1793,  Cincinnati  had  its  first  new8pi4)er;* 
but  no  tokens  of  the  cultivation  of  the  Muses  in  the  West  were  given,  until  about  the 
year  1815,  when  The  Western  Spy^  occasionally  published  verses  whidi  were  an- 
nounced as  original  Newspapers  were  then  printed  in  Mi^^ouri,  in  Michigan,  and  in 
Indiana;^  but  they  were  mere  chronicles  of  news,  giving  infrequent  attention  even  to 
local  bu^ness  affairs.  Soldiers,  hunters,  and  boatmen  had  among  them  many  songs, 
descriptive  of  adventures  incident  to  backwoods  life,  some  of  which  were  not  desti- 
tute of  poetic  merit ;  but  they  were  known  only  around  camp-fires,  or  on  ^  broad- 
horns,**^  and  tradition  has  preserved  none  which  demands  place  in  these  pages. 

In  August,  1819,  the  initial  monthly  magazine  of  the  West  was  issued  at  Lexing- 
ton, Kentucky.*  There  was  then  decided  rivalry  between  Cincinnati  and  Lexington 
for  literery  pre-eminence.  Rival  in^Htitutions  of  learning  ^  exerted  powerful  influence 
wherever  social  circles  exlnted,  not  wholly  ab^orbe*!  by  im|)erative  material  necessi- 
ties, nnd  the  effect  of  that  influ«»nce  was  the  development  of  an  active  literary  spirit, 
which  found  exprc^jiion  in    The    Western  BevietCy   The    Western  Spy,  and  in  The 

1  Tkf  Kenttitkt  Gaztitf,  bj  WUlkm  BmUbrd. 

I  Th*  S^fUtHfl  of  tJu  Sortk  Wt$t  Trrrttory,  hj  WUIUb  1Uxw«U. 

•StMTied,  In  17W.  by  JoMph  Carprater.  »t  Clnclaoatl. 

«  BiUblUbMl  Id  Ml«oari.  »t  St.  Loub.  IWS  ;  la  Mlchi(mii,  »t  DHroil,  1910  ;  la  ladkoa,  %t  Vtaemaw,  la  ISIL 

*  Tb«  coouDoa  bum  Ibr  Ohio  mad  MlMUvippI  lU*-bQ*U. 

*  Tk«  WtMtftn  RerUw.    WUUfim  Glbbc«  Boat,  Editor.    OelftTo,  fll  pt«M.    PrtM  tSOO a  jmr.    ITtofinaflati  at 
Um  rad  of  tbt  fbortb  votoa*,  Jnlj,  ISU. 

'  TnwylTsala  Unlfvnltj,  Ltxtagtoa ;  Cladaaftll  OoDitt. 


HISTORICAL   SKETCH.  16 

Liberty  HaU  and  Cincinnati  Gazetted  The  poetic  frait  of  that  spirit  was  chiefly 
aDonjmoas,  or  oyer  fictitious  signatures,  and  upon  local  topics ;  but  occasionallj  verses 
were  produced  which  would  do  honor  to  the  poet's  comer  of  a  newspaper  of  the 
present  time. 

The  first  book  or  pamphlet  of  original  verses,  published  in  the  West,  was  printed 
at  Cincinnati,  in  1819.  It  was  a  duodecimo  pamphlet  of  ninetj-two  pages,  entitled, 
"American  Bards:  A  Modem  Poem,  in  three  parts."  The  author  did  not  announpe 
himself,  but  was  understood  to  be  Gorham  A.  Worth.'  Its  purpose  and  value  can  be 
presented  in  a  few  stanzas : 

As  a  general,  intent  upon  movements  more  near. 

Where  the  pride  of  the  battle's  arrayed, 
Sends  a  chief  to  inspect  the  divisions  in  rear, 
To  inspire  them  with  ardor  in  victory's  career, 

And  report  each  delinqnent  brigade : 

So  Apollo,  engrossed  with  the  Bards  of  the  Isle, 

So  famed,  bat  so  garmlons  grown. 
Sends  his  Aid  to  the  West,  to  examine  the  style 
Of  car  star-bannered  poets,  and  tiotice  the  while 

What  laurels  we  claimed  as  our  own. 

His  orders  expressed,  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 

High  o'er  the  Atlantic  was  borne 
The  deputy-god,  thus  commissioned  to  bind 
In  a  bundle  what  garlands  our  muses  had  twined, 

And  report,  d  la  eritiquef  as  sworn. 

Having  surveyed  the  South,  the  East,  and  the  West  of  America,  the  deputy-god 
reported: 

From  the  ahores  of  Si  John,  in  the  Province  of  Maine, 

To  the  halls  of  St  Boone,  in  the  West, 
Her  minstrels  are  heard  ;  and  strain  after  stndn. 
From  the  cities,  the  mountains  re-echo  again. 

Till  at  length  'mid  the  prairies  they  rest 

Neither  his  catalogue  of  those  minstrels,  nor  his  opinion  of  their  merits,  which  he 
then  proceeds  to  give,  is  worth  quoting. 

In  November,  1819,  Joseph  Buchanan  published,  at  Cincinnati,  the  first  number  of 
a  weekly  paper,  which  he  called  The  Literary  Cadet  It  gave  promise  of  spirit  and 
taste,  but,  when  twenty-three  numbers  had  been  issued,  was  merged  in  77ie  Western 
Spy,  which  was  then  entitled  The  Western  Spy  and  Literary  Cadet,  Mr.  Buchanan 
remaining  as  editor.  The  Spy  and  Cadet  soon  became  the  favorite  medium  of  pub- 
lication for  the  rhymers,  both  of  Kentucky  and  of  Ohio.  A  metrical  satire  by  one 
of  their  number,^  tho.ugh,  no  doubt,  more  severe  than  fair,  which  was  published  in 

1  The  lAberty  HaU  wu  started  in  1804,  by  Rev.  John  W.  Browne ;  and  In  December,  1S16,  the  Cincinnati  Oazettij 
begun  bj  Thomas  Palmer  in  July  of  that  year,  was  merged  in  it,  and  it  waa  then  published  semi-weekly  as  well  as 
weekly,  being  the  first  semi-weekly  paper  in  the  North-West. 

*  Then  a  banker  in  Cincinnati. 

•  Thomas  Peirce,  in  No.  zx.  of  "  Odes  of  Horace  in  Cincinnati,"  of  which  account  Is  gi^en,  page  86. 


16  HISTORICAL   SKETCH. 

The  Spff  and  Oadetj  August  ei^teenth,  1821,  gives  their  sBgnatures  aad  indica 
their  characterisdcs: 

Tb«  flnt  to  notioe  !b  "Ohio's  bud,"i 

Who,  with  tlie  love  of  deathlen  glory  aniiten, 
Lsbored^how  loog  I  know  not,  oor  how  hard — 

Until  a  oertsin  poem  he  had  written ; 
And,  aeoming  to  socept  the  least  reward 

In  oielesi  cadi,  a  norel  scheme  he  hit  on— 
To  let  it  ran  its  own  road,  helter  skelter  ; 
Wben  lo  I  it  took  to  Lethe's  banks  for  shelter. 

When  warmed  and  dazzled  hj  some  darling  theme, 

He  writes  with  ardor  and  poetic  passion. 
But  wild  as  if  the  whole  he  did  but  dream 

(A  mode  of  composition  much  in  &shion), 
Contented  if  but  now  and  then  a  g^eam 

Of  light  illume  his  wanderings,  to  dash  on 
The  best  he  may  do,  and  improve  the  season. 
With  or  without  the  aid  of  *'  rhyme  or  reason." 

Proceed,  great  bard !  for  though  your  flrst  essay 

May  raise  the  fooFs  derision — nerer  heed  it ; 
Still  trarel  on  the  muses*  turnpike  way, 

And  write  a  better  book  (for  much  we  need  it). 
In  which  your  genius  may  have  ampler  play  ; 

E'en  learned  reviewers  then  will  deign  to  read  it, 
And  not,  like  all  your  former  critio-eages, 
Just  name  the  title  and  asKmnt  of  pages. 

The  next  in  course  is  **  Blunderbuss  Esquire," 

Who,  like  the  ferer,  comes  amongst  us  yearly 
To  hurl  about  his  wild  poetic  fire, 

Until  some  of  us  have  been  scorched  sererely ; 
But  should  he  erer  fairly  raise  our  Irp, 

He'll  pay  for  all  his  sneers  and  satires  dearly  ; 
Through  erery  alley,  street,  and  lane  well  dog  hfan  ; 
And  if  we  catch  him,  ten  to  one  well  flog  him. 

On  this,  my  scale,  the  "  Bard  of  Locust  Grove  ** 

May,  if  he  pleases,  stand  the  third  in  number  ; 
If  not,  'twill  be  my  task  ere  long  to  prove 

He  ne'er  wrote  anght  but  traiih  and  useless  lumber ; 
And  if  he  upward  aim  one  peg  to  move. 

He  munt  not  let  his  muse  profoundly  slumber, 
As  wont — save  Just  to  wake  and  chant  a  ditty. 
On  every  New-Tear *s  day,  to  please  the  city. 

In  truth.  I  scarce  know  how  to  make  report 

Of  one  who  writes,  *tb  known,  so  very  little ; 
But  if  his  lays  are  not  the  beet,  they're  short, 

And,  therefore,  suit  most  reader*  to  a  tittle  ; 
And  though  his  muse  may  kick,  and  rear,  and  snort, 

And  show  on  some  occasions  too  much  mettle. 
Yet  wen*  she  oftener  saddled,  backed,  and  ridden, 
She*d  move  superbly  wheresoever  bidden. 

▲.Worth. 


The  next  in  order,  'mong  oar  city  bards, 

Ck>me8  for  his  share  of  laarels,  young  "  Juvenls,"  ^ 
Who  nobly  fh)m  his  poetry  discards 

All  sense  and  harmony  ;  therefore  (between  us) 
He  has  obtained  my  warmest,  beet  regards, 

And  I  will  ever  be  his  kind  Maecenas, 
While  he,  as  usual,  writes  without  a  thought,  or 
Instead  of  ink,  he  uses  milk  and  water. 

Oh !  how  I  love  his  lamb-like  sort  of  style ! 

It  is  so  soft,  so  tender,  and  so  simple ! 
Tis  so  much  like  a  little  baby's  smile, 

That  scarcely  raises  on  its  check  a  dimple ! 
It  makes  one  ^'  feel  all  over  so ; "  meanwhile 

It  vails  the  little  sense  as  with  a  wimple ; 
And  each  charmed  reader  feels  himself  a  lover. 
Until  he  falls  asleep— and  all  is  over. 

In  coarse,  "  Favonius  "  and  "  Puero  "  come. 

Who,  being  much  alike,  I  link  together  ; 
Although  no  poets,  they  have  jingled  some. 

But  when,  or  where,  or  for  what  end — or  whether 
Just  so  so,  or  still  meaner — I  am  mum. 

Except  to  drop  this  fHendly  hint  to  either — 
He  who  writes  ill,  the  less  he  writes  the  better, 
And  hence,  let  rhyme  no  more  your  genius  fetter. 

And  last  of  all,  some  half  a  score  or  so, 

"  Fudge,"  "  Momus,"  "  Umbra,"  "  Tom,"  and  "  Dick,"  and  "  Harry," 
"  Kentucky  Bard,"  "  Snip,"  "  Sneezer,"  and  "  Quiz  &  Co.," 

All  aim  to  write,  and  all  alike  miscarry ; 
Like  geese  of  passage  flying  to  and  fro. 

Unused  in  any  climate  long  to  tarry — 
In  short,  the  fag-end  of  the  rabble. 
Attracting  notice  only  by  their  gabble. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  jear  1821,  a  competitor  for  the  prose  and  poetic  contri- 
butions of  the  young  writers  of  Ohio,  Kentucky,  and  Indiana,  which  The  Spy  and 
Cadet  had  chiefly  monopolized,  was  issued  at  Cincinnati.  It  was  a  semi-monthly 
quarto  paper,  called  The  Olio.^  The  encouragement  given  by  these  journals  to  local 
literature  was  the  inspiring  cause  of  the  first  effort  on  the  part  of  a  literary  society, 
in  the  West,  for  development  of  poetic  ability. 

In  the  year  1818,  the  students  of  Cincinnati  College  formed  a  society  for  mutual 
Kterary  improvement,  which  they  denominated  The  Philomathic  The  first  members 
were  John  H.  and  Junius  James,  Greorge  Mackey  Wilson,^  Lemuel  D.  Howells, 
Robert  T.  Lytle,  and  Edward  L.  Drake.  Afterward,  William  Henry  Harrison, 
Thomas  Peirce,  Daniel  Drake,  Benjamin  Drake,  Peyton  Short  Symmes,  and  other 


n 


1 A  vriter  Ibr  the  ^py  and  Cadet^  who  published  a  small  pamphlet,  eont^nlng  poems,  at  Cincimiatl,  in  1822. 

>  John  H.  Wood  and  S.  S.  Brooks  were  the  editors  and  pablishers  ;  Robert  T.  Lytle,  John  H.  James,  Lemuel  Rey- 
nolds, Solomon  &idU>,  uid  Dennis  M'Henry,  the  principal  contributors — all  of  whom  had  been,  and  continued  to  be, 
contributors  to  the  Spy  and  Cadet.    The  Olio  was  continued  about  one  year. 

'Son  of  Beir.  Joshua  L.  Wilson,  well  known  tor  many  years  as  Pastor  of  the  First  Presbyterian  Ohuroh  of  Gin- 


18  HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 


gentlemen,  well  known  at  that  daj,  were  elected  members  of  a  branch  of  the  fK>cietT, 
composed  of  graduates  and  persons  interested  in  literary  afikirs.  In  that  circle  orig- 
inated the  enteq)rij$e  of  offering  a  gold  medal  of  the  Talue  of  Afiy  dollars  for  the  bet^t 
original  poem  by  a  citizen  of  the  Western  country,  which  should  be  sent  to  the  Sec- 
retary of  the  society,  between  the  fiAeenth  of  November,  1821,  and  the  first  day  of 
April,  1822.  The  poem  was  required  to  consist  of  not  less  tlian  four  hundred  lint^ 
and,  to  merit  the  award,  be  worthy  of  publication,  the  society  ple<lging  itself  to  print 
it  in  acceptable  fomt.  The  only  restriction  as  to  subject  was  that  ^  if  any  natural 
scenery,  historical  incidents,  or  existing  institutions  were  commemorated,  they  should 
be  of  a  Western  character." 

The  committee  appointed  to  decide  upon  the  merits  of  the  poems  competing  for 
the  prize,  was  coro|x>sed  of  John  P.  Foote,  John  D.  Godman,^  and  Benjamin  Drake. 
Twelve  poems  were  received  by  the  officers  of  the  society.*  Extracts  from  four 
of  them,  ^The  Muse  of  Ilesperia,"  by  a  citizen  of  Cincinnati,  '^The  Banks  of 
tlie  Ohio,"  by  a  lady  of  Madison,  Indiana,  ^  The  Story  of  Osage  to  Ben  Logan," 
written  in  lioss  county,  and  ^  Retrospection,"  written  in  Muskingum  county,  Ohio, 
were  published  in  The  Spy  cmd  Cadet,  The  medal  was  awarded  to  ^  The  Muse  of 
Hesperia,  a  Poetic  lieverie,"  and  ^The  Banks  of  Ohio"  was  adjudged  next  in 
merit. 

^  The  Muse  of  Hesperia "  was  published  by  the  Philomathic  Society  on  heavy 
paper  from  clear  type,^  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  1823.  It  was  then  announced 
that  the  author  had  declined  making  himself  known  to  the  society,  so  as  to  receive 
the  medal  awarded  his  poem.  The  President  of  the  society,  in  a  preface  to  the 
pamphlet  containing  ^  The  Muse,"  said  it  was  not  given  as  the  best  exhibitioo  of 
poetic  talent  in  the  West,  but  as  the  best  submitted  to  the  committee.  For  several 
weeks  after  its  appearance,  lively  discussion  upon  its  authorehip  and  upon  its  merits 
was  had  in  the  Gctzette  and  Liberty  Uailf  and  in  The  Spy  atid  CadeL  The  author- 
ship was  not  certainly  ascertained  for  ten  or  twelve  years.  It  was  then  fixed  upon 
Thomas  Peirce.^ 

Both  on  account  of  its  origin  and  its  characteristics,  ^  The  Muse  of  Hesperia  "  is 
peculiarly  appropriate  for  the  conclusion  of  this  Sketch.  It  embodies  a  just  appeal 
to  the  Bards  of  the  West  for  original  study  and  treatment  of  themes  suggested  by 
the  scenery,  history  and  romance  of  the  Hesperian  valleys. 

Such  fact^  showing  tlie  origin  of  literary  enterprises,  and  the  encouragement  and 
development  of  poetical  literature  in  the  West,  afkT  1821,  as  could  be  ascertained* 
have  been  given  in  the  Biographic  Notices  which  precede  the  specimens  of  that 
literature  selected  for  this  volume. 


1  Then  etlttor  of  Th*  Wfttem  Qimrterlf  Reporter,  »  oMiUcal  joamal.  publl«be<l  bj  John  P.  Footo,  mhheh  VM  <U»- 
contlnurtl  vlth  th«  Aixth  namber,  when  Dr.  Ckxlouui  rvciottd  to  PhilMleiphW. 

•  John  U.  Jamat,  Preaideati  G«o.  M.  Wlboo,  SaerKary. 

•J.  11.  Looker  k  S.  lUynolJ*  (publbhar*  of  Um  ^f  mmd  Oadft),  printmi.    llao,  pp.  iS. 
<  ThMi  adltpd  hy  Hrnj/unln  f,  Pxtmwn. 

•  Blocmplik  Moliea,  pim»  M- 


HISTORICAL   SKETCH. 


19 


THE  MUSE  OF  HESPERIA. 


Twis  eve :  the  son  had  sank  to  rest 
Beneath  a  hQl's  aspirlDg  crest ; 

Bat  still  the  gush 
Of  changeftil  light  illumed  the  skies, 
And  tinged  the  clouds  with  varying  dyes, 
Till  faded  from  our  eager  eyes 

Its  latest  blush. 

Tvras  eve :  the  hum  of  city-crowd, 
Now  faint  and  weak,  now  clear  and  loud, 

The  low  of  kine, 
The  bleat  of  sheep  on  neighboring  plains, 
The  milk-nudd's  song  of  love-lorn  swains, 
The  cow-bow's  still  more  rustic  strains, 

At  once  combine. 

Twas  eve :  the  streams  and  groves  along 
The  Whippowil  poured  forth  his  song 

In  descant  shrill ; 
And  night's  more  solitary  bird 
His  hoarse  and  boding  song  preferred ; 
While  ever  and  anon  was  heard 

Some  distant  rilL 

Twas  eve :  in  woodlands  dark  and  damp, 
The  glow-worm  lit  his  emerald  lamp  ; 

While  to  and  fro 
The  fire-flies  darted  quick  and  bright. 
As  if  the  countless  stars  of  night 
Had  left  their  empyrean  height 

To  sport  below. 

Twas  eve :  the  toils  of  daytime  o'er, 
I  strolled  along  Ohio's  shore, 

Where  yonder  vale 
Meanders  through  a  hundred  hills, 
From  whose  high  tops  transparent  rills 
Rush  boldly  down  ;  while  music  fills 

The  evening  gale. 

There,  on  the  grassy  shore,  a  grove, 
Sacred  to  Solitude  and  Love, 

Spread  wide  around ; 
The  moonbeams  through  the  foliage  played 
In  chuigefril  fits  of  light  and  shade  ; 
I  trembled — ^paused— for  lo  I  I  strayed 

On  fairy  ground. 

Now  calm  and  calmer  stiired  the  breeze. 
Till  not  a  zephyr  fanned  the  trees ; 

So  wildly  sweet. 
So  still,  so  awfrd,  so  profound. 
The  breathless  solitude  around. 
That  e'en  distinctly  seemed  to  sound 

The  pulse's  beat 


Sudden,  within  this  fury  ring, 
Where  Silence  moved  on  silken  wing. 

From  harps  of  heaven 
Burst  the  taW  songs  of  seraph-choirs. 
As  angel-fingers  touched  the  lyres. 
And  Music  breathed  with  all  the  fires 

To  poets  given. 

When  lo  I  firom  heaven's  ethereal  height. 
Encompassed  by  a  sheet  of  light, 

A  spirit,  fair 
As  ever  poet's  fancy  drew. 
On  viewless  pinions  downward  fiew. 
And,  hovering  ftdl  before  my  view. 

Alighted  there. 

Against  a  harp  her  head  reclined ; 
Around  her  brows  the  laurel  twined. 

This  Angel-form, 
Through  me,  her  idle  son,  addressed 
My  brother  Poets  of  the  West, 
With  noble  sdr,  this  firm  behest, 

In  language  warm : 

"  Know,  youthful  Bards — ^for  scarcely  yet 
Plena's  waves  your  lips  have  wet, 

And  scarce  a  wing 
Have  you  stretched  forth  in  life's  gay  {vime 
To  reach  Parnassus'  height  sublime. 
And  scarce  essayed  in  polished  rhyme 

Its  charms  to  sing — 

**  Know,  youthful  Bards,  to  me  belong 
The  realms  of  Genius  and  of  Song : — 

Who  can  refuse 
At  objects  great  and  good  to  aim. 
On  Glory's  page  to  write  his  name. 
And  follow  on  to  deathless  fame 

Hesperia's  Muse  ? — 

**  Know,  youthAil  Bards,  to  me  are  given 
Ten  thousand  airs  from  earth  and  heaven. 

From  infant  hours 
A  pupil  of  the  sacred  Nine, 
Beared  by  Apollo's  hand  divine, 
The  soul  of  Harmony  is  mine, 

And  Music's  powers. 

**  0*er  stream,  and  wood,  and  grove,  and  lawn, 
As  Night's  dim  curtain  now  is  drawn, 

My  object  here. 
Bards  of  the  West  I  is  to  inspire 
Your  seal  to  wake  the  slumbering  lyre, 
And  reach,  on  classic  wings,  a  higher 

And  nobler  sphere. 


20 


HISTORICAL   SKETCH. 


n 


Lo  I  bunting  on  the  tftoalthed  view, 
What  landflcapes,  vast,  aod  rich,  and  new, 

Are  jonn  to  botst  I 
What  moantains  lift  their  heads  on  high  I 
What  lakei  in  bonndleM  prospect  lie  I 
What  riven  roll  their  Tolamea  hj, 

To  yonder  coast  I 


"  In  no  department  of  the  globe 
Does  Flon  wear  a  richer  robe. 

Of  brighter  dyes : 
Here,  in  the  long  career  of  Time, 
Nature  still  reigns  in  youthful  prime. 
And  oljects  beauteous,  vast,  sublime, 

Around  her  rise. 

"  Far  wcf>twsrd,  where  the  sun's  last  njs 
Fire  the  wide  laodiicape  with  a  blaze 

Of  dazzling  gold, 
Huge  mountains  rear  their  giant  forms 
On  high  amid  the  winery  storms. 
And.  reaching  wide  their  thousand  arms, 

A  world  infold. 

*'  There,  seated  on  his  rocky  throne, 
Eowrapt  in  clouds,  supreme,  alone. 

Where  tempests  blow, 
The  mighty  Genius  of  the  West 
Hurls  forth  his  storms:  at  his  bdiest 
The  thunden  rage,  or  rinmbering  rest, 
To  all  below. 

**  He  looks  around  with  kingly  pride  : 
Far  eastward  sees,  expanded  wide, 

Vast  riven  pour ; 
Far  northward,  arctic  tempests  rave  ; 
Far  southward,  golden  harvests  wave ; 
Far  westward,  ocean's  billows  lave 

Columbians  ihore. 

**  How  long  the  war-whoop,  round  the  peak 
Of  these  huge  mountains,  high  and  bleak. 

Responsive  rung ! 
How  long  those  granite  rockii  have  stood ! 
How  long  has  roared  that  headlong  flood ! 
How  long  has  bloomed  and  died  that  wood  t 

— By  bards  unsung. 


*i 


Nor  are  their  beauties  wholly  fled. 
Now  that  the  white  man's  restless  tread 

Disturbs  the  gloom — 
A  gloom  which  swift  before  him  flies, 
As  meadows  open  to  the  skies, 
As  forests  Ikll,  and  cities  rise. 

And  harvests  bloom. 


"  Behold,  far  north,  yon  inland  leas ! 
Now  calm,  unruffled  by  a  breeze. 

They  dlent  sleep ; 
Now  heave  on  high  the  moontaloHiorge, 
And  wave  on  wave  tremendous  nige. 
And  man  and  shattered  navies  merge 
Beneath  the  deep. 

''There,  'mid  the  solitude  profound. 
With  boundless  forests  closed  aronad. 

From  age  to  age. 
Untutored  red  men  plied  the  oar. 
Ferocious  wild  beasts  trod  the  shore. 
And  tempests  swept  their  bosoms  oVr 

With  boisterous  rage. 

**  Anon,  their  placid,  crystal  wave 
To  all  a  faithful  mirror  gave, 

Above,  around : 
There  one  might  see  the  inverted  skies, 
See  constellations  set  and  rise. 
Enlightening  with  their  diamood-eysi 

The  vist  profound. 

**  There,  unobserved  by  bard  or  sage. 
For  many  an  unrecorded  age, 

The  fairy-band, 
In  can  of  softest  moonlight  made, 
Drove  o'er  the  deep ;  or,  jocund,  played 
Where  groves  adorned  with  light  and  rimde 

The  a^iacent  land. 


**  But  softly— hark !  the  white  man's 
And  all  the  fairy  vision *s  fled ! 

Lo  I  on  the  sight 
Bursts  a  new  scene,  which  ne'er  can  (hil 
To  rouse  your  pride  while  navies  saiL 
And  squadrons  o'er  the  foe  prevail 

In  equal  flghL 

''  See.  far  and  wide,  ten  thousand  rills, 
Forth  issuing  fW>m  unnumbered  hills, 

Through  vales  and 
Now  gliding  gently  from  their  source. 
Now  gathering  Ktreogth  along  their 
Now  rushing  with  n^stl^'ss  force 

To  kindred  floods. 

**  See,  in  one  channel  broad  and  deep, 
The  congregated  torrent  sweep, 

^^liich,  stretching  ftr 
O'er  many  a  wide-ezteoded  plain. 
Resolves  its  empire  to  maintain. 
And  wages  with  Its  parent-mala 

Eternal  war. 


HISTORICAL   SKETCH.                                              21 

"As  marching  on  its  coane  sablime, 

^  Or  Autumn  through  the  orchard  strews. 

Through  whftt  a  yaet  extent  of  clime 

And  native  woods,  with  hand  proftise, 

Its  waters  glide ! 

His  ripened  fruit ; 

From  where  the  eastern  moantains  rise, 

As  Flora  captivates  your  eyes, 

From  those  that  meet  the  western  skies, 

With  all  her  gay  and  sober  dyes, 

From  where  the  lakes  attract  oar  ejes, 

And  the  wild  game  in  terror  flies 

To  ocean's  tide  I 

The  close  pursuit : 

"  To  seek  a  stream  so  long  and  deep, 

"  Or  Winter  from  his  store-house  throws 

That  flows  with  sach  resistless  sweep, 

O'er  fields  and  woods  his  fieecy  snows ; 

Where  turn  our  eyes  T 

As  his  cold  breath 

The  Danube,  Ganges,  Nile,  and  Rhine, 

Whisties  among  the  branches  bare. 

Were  all  thdr  volumes  to  combine. 

Stills  the  sweet  songsters  of  the  sdr. 

This  noble  stream  would  scarce  outshine 

And  nips  each  herb  and  fioweret  fair 

For  length  and  size. 

Wltii  histant  death : 

''How  long,  through  ages  past  and  gone. 

'<  Whether  bright  Mom  o'er  wood  and  lawn 

Its  waters  flowed  unheeded  on  ; 

Spreads  the  first  blushes  of  the  dawn, 

As  through  the  dark. 

With  rosy  hand ; 

Unbounded  forest's  gloomy  shade. 

As  through  the  air  her  sweets  diflhse. 

la  quest  of  game  the  Indian  strayed, 

And  from  ezhaustless  mines  she  strews 

Or  on  its  surface,  sportive,  played 

Ten  thousand  gems  of  crystal  dews 

His  simple  bark  I 

O'er  all  the  land  : 

"And  still  enchanting  Is  the  scene  ; 

"  Or  Noon  sends  forth  the  sultry  hours 

Now,  orchards,  fields,  and  meadows  green 

To  scathe  the  choicest  fruits  and  fiowers ; 

Are  spreading  wide ; 

As  Phoebus  now 

Now,  Art  and  Science,  hand  in  hand. 

With  undiminished  radiance  glows. 

Walk  forth ;  and,  at  their  joint  command. 

And  no  decrease  of  fervor  knows, 

Roads,  bridges,  cities  grace  the  land, 

Till  Eve  her  dusky  mantle  throws 

And  ships,  the  tide. 

O'er  Nature's  brow : 

"These  mountains,  valleys,  lakes,  and  woods — 

"  Or  gloomy  Night  extends  o'er  all 

These  rills  tiiat  glide,  and  cataract-floods 

The  slumbering  world  her  blackest  pall ; 

That  sweep  along. 

As  firom  her  seat. 

To  yon  are  grand  and  fruitftil  themes. 

In  ether  fixed,  she  views  the  whole — 

Gild  these  with  Fancy's  brightest  beams, 

The  countless  orbs  that  o'er  her  roll, 

And  wn4>  tiiem  in  the  wildest  dreams 

And  land  and  sea,  firom  pole  to  pole, 

Of  fairy-song. 

Beneath  her  feet : 

"For  whether  Spring,  with  warmth  and  showers, 

"  Whether  abroad  the  tempest  lowers. 

Gives  to  the  trees,  and  shrubs,  and  flowers, 

The  lightnings  fiash,  and  thunder  roars 

Another  birth ; 

With  deafening  sound : 

As  zephyrs  on  light  pinions  move. 

Or  Nature's  face  Is  calm  and  fsdr. 

And  warblers  vocalise  each  grove 

And  all  that  live  their  joys  declare. 

With  songs  of  gratitude  and  love. 

And  fragrance  through  the  balmy  air 

Or  sportive  mirth : 

Is  breathing  round  : — 

"  Or  Summer  darts  his  radiance  warm. 

"  Nay,  view  it  in  what  state  you  vrtll. 

And  every  vegetative  form 

This  Fiden  breathes  enchantment  stilL 

Is  blooming  feAt ; 

Delighted  here 

As  rills  and  rivers  cease  to  flow. 

Fays,  Sylphs,  and  Gknii  oft  preside. 

As  ardent  suns  resistless  glow. 

Unseen,  on  airy  pinions  glide. 

And  breezes  scarcely  seem  to  blow — 

And  watch  and  guard  the  landscape  wide. 

So  calm  the  air : 

Through  all  the  year. 

22 


HISTORICAL   SKETCH. 


**  Most  foreign  rfajmen  ftill  SQoce«d 
In  finunlng  tales  for  yoa  to  read? 

Can  feadal  Jan 
Alone  inspire  yoa  with  delight, 
As  rengeftU  chieftain,  squire,  and  knight 
Bosh  forth,  in  masRlTe  armor  digfat. 

To  border-wars  T 

**  And  will  yoa  not,  in  lofty  rerse, 
Feats  more  ohiyalric  still  refaeanie  f 

The  feati  of  those. 
Who,  where  his  herd  the  swain  now  leads 
O'er  plains  where  peace  to  war  socceeds, 
Met  and  chastised,  for  barbaroas  deeds, 

Their  saTage  fbes. 


II  • 


*    *    *    Be  yoors  the  task, 
As  in  Apollo's  rays  yoa  bask, 

The  Arts  to  lead, 
And  Science,  to  yoor  fairy  bowers, 
To  charm  them  with  yoor  toneftil  powers. 
And  crown  them  with  the  choicest  flowers 

To  bards  decreed. 

**  Be  yoors  the  oflice  to  describe 
The  blooming  belles  of  Flora's  tribe ; 

For,  hidden  here, 
Linneos'  self  again  might  find 
New  treasares  to  enrich  his  mind. 
To  coltivate  his  taste  refined. 

And  Jodgment  clear. 

^  Look  through  this  pare  and  fhtgrant  afar, 
To  note  the  volant  minstrels  there, 

As  yet  unknown ; 
The  finny  race  that  cleave  these  floods ; 
That  seek  those  fiens,  the  reptile  broods ; 
And  beasts  that  roam  these  boundless  woods, 

So  late  tbeir  own. 


n 


i* 


Sing  how  the  soil  which  now  we  tread 
Was  oooe  the  ocean's  coral  bed  ; 

Till,  fW>m  the  strife 
Of  oentral  flres,  an  earthquake-stroke 
Was  given  ;  the  southern  barrier  broke, 
And  lol  a  new  creation  woke 

To  Ught  and  life. 

How  then,  these  valleys  wide  along. 
From  northern  lakes  Uie  currents  strong, 

In  eddying  coil, 
Rushed  southward  with  impetuous  sweep, 
Where  now  but  rills  are  seen  to  creep. 
And  formed  these  vast  alluvions,  deep 

In  fertile  soil 


u 


And  ting  how  long  these  ramparti  rude. 
Spread  through  the  western  wilds,  bav»  stood. 

Extended  wide: 
Whether  some  bold  sdveotaroos  host 
Of  white  men,  wivcked  upon  the 
Could  this  stupendous  labor 

Then  fled  or  died : 

Or  whether,  whence  old  Ocean  roan 
Round  Asia's  hyperborean  riiores, 

The  Tartan  wild 
Here  wandered,  and  these  bulwarin  planned 
Till,  pressed  by  some  more  potent  band, 
They  southward  fled,  and  found  a  land 

Hon  fkir  and  mild,-— 


**  When,  self-illumed,  from  age  to  age, 
Man  from  a  savage  to  a  sage 

Progressive  grew  \ 
Where,  undisturtied  by  fordgn  fbe, 
The  infant  Arts  began  to  grow, 
Till  rose  the  towen  of  Hexioo 

And  rich  Peru. 

**  Whoe'er  the  builden  may  have  been. 
How  altered  now  the  forest  scene 

From  early  times! 
The  former  race,  thoogfa  rude,  yet  brave, 
Perhaps,  from  death  their  tribes  to  save, 
Forsook  the  land  their  fkthen  gave 

For  other  dimes. 

'*  Now,  'mid  these  ibapeless  mounds  of  toil^ 
Thrown  up  with  long  laborious  toCU 

And  want  of  skiU, 
A  coltivati^  landscape  spreads. 
Towns,  villas,  citie«>  lift  their  haada. 
And  Commeroe  her  rich  treasures  leads 

Along  each  rilL 

**  Where  \tiie  the  war-whoop's  hideous  sound 
Alone  diMurbcd  the  silence  round ; 

Now  thousands  join 
In  sacred  harmony,  to  raise 
The  ChriPtfao>  gratrfbl  song  of  praise. 
To  Him  who  beamed  o'er  all  their  ways 

His  light  divine. 


»i 


Where  late  the  Indian  wigwams  stood. 
Deep  in  the  anl>oandt>d  range  of  wood. 

Where  scarce  the  sun 
Could  penetrate  the  twilight-fihade ; 
Now,  dom««  of  science  stand  displayed. 
When  youth's  to  fkme,  by  learning's  aid, 

Tbeb  Journey  run. 


HISTORICAL   SKETCH. 


2S 


''  Where  lately,  armed  for  deadly  strife 
With  tomahawk  and  scalping-kalfey 

The  natives  strove ; 
Now  dove-eyed  Peace  triumphant  reigns, 
And  o'er  the  cultivated  plains, 
In  converse  sweet,  gay  nymphs  and  swains 

Delij^ted  rove. 

''  Here  pause ;  and  with  prospective  glass 
Behold  new  ages  as  they  pass 

In  long  review : 
Behold  the  various  beasts  of  prey. 
And  red  men  more  untamed  than  they, 
Become  extinct,  or  pass  away 

To  regions  new. 

*'  See  teeming  cities  rise  beside 
Missouri's  and  Columbia's  tide, 

And  where  the  snow 
On  Chipewan's  high  summit  gleams  ; 
Lo !  fields,  and  meads,  and  lakes,  and  streams. 
Now  open  to  the  sun's  bright  beams. 

Resplendent  glow. 

**  See  turnpikes  and  canals  connect 
Oceans  which  continents  dissect ; 

See  Trade  rescind 
The  orders  which  she  gave  before. 
And  bring  fh)m  the  Pacific's  shore. 
O'er  western  mountains,  to  each  door 

The  stores  of  Ind. 

**  And  still  to  your  aspiring  song. 
In  common,  other  themes  belong : 

The  fertile  field. 
Where  nobler  bards  their  laurels  raise 
(A  boon  which  all  their  toil  repays), 
As  large  a  wreath  of  fadeless  bays 

To  you  may  yield, 

"  You,  too,  can  aid  the  noble  task 
Vice  to  expose,  when  she  the  mask 

Of  Virtue  wears ; 
From  scandal's  shafts  the  good  to  save. 
From  cowardrtongues  to  shield  the  brave. 
And  show  the  proud  and  wealthy  knave 

The  heart  he  bears. 

"  You,  too,  can  Yhrtue's  laws  maintdn, 
Defend  Religion's  sacred  fane 

'Gainst  atiieist-arms ; 
And  fh)m  the  cold  o'erclouded  night 
Of  lone  obscurity,  to  light 
Of  glorious  day,  lead  genius  bright 

In  all  his  charms. 


'*  You,  too,  can  run  each  poet's  round, 
Can  wander  wide  o'er  classic  ground, 

In  thoughtftil  mood, 
Where  famed  Parnassus  towers  on  high, 
Or  Tempe's  blooming  valleys  lie, 
Or  old  Scamauder  wanders  by 

Where  Ilion  stood. 
•  ••••• 

**  For  know,  the  Bard  is  Fancy's  child : 
Whate'er  is  grand,  or  strange,  or  wild, 

His  genius  moves ; 
His  pathway  lira  o'er  fairy-ground, 
Where  Sylphs  and  Genii  guard  him  round ; 
Through  realms  on  high  and  depths  profound 

His  spirit  roves. 

**  A  hermit  'midst  the  crowd  of  men, 
Through  Nature's  works  his  restive  ken 

Excursive  flies: 
Though  on  the  present  moments  cast, 
He  lives,  in  thought,  through  all  the  past, 
And  those  to  come,  while  time  shall  last 
To  earth  and  skies. 

'^  He  journeys,  careless  of  a  path 
Where  the  rude  tempest  in  its  wrath 
Spreads  ruin  wide ; 
Or  through  the  dense,  untrodden  wood — 
Creation's  gloomiest  solitude — 
O'er  mountfldns,  by  the  cataract  flood, 
I    Or  ooean-side. 

^*  And  learn  this  truth,  my  pupils  dear, 
Where'er  you  journey,  or  whate'er 

The  plans  you  lay, 
Let  Truth  and  Nature  be  your  guide: 
The  moment  you  desert  their  side. 
Through  tracklees  wilds  you  wander  wide, 

And  lose  your  way. 

*^  Who  leaves  their  fire,  to  warm  his  heart 
By  the  cold  and  dubious  light  of  Art, 

With  gaudy  flowers 
May  please  young  Fancy  for  a  time. 
And  charm  with  brilliancy  of  rhyme ; 
But  ne'er  can  reach  the  true  sublime, 

With  all  his  powers. 

"  Art  is  the  ignis  fatuus  ray 
That  leads  the  wanderer's  feet  astray  ; 

Fancy,  a  gleam — 
The  meteor  flashes,  and  'tis  gone ; 
But  Nature  is  the  unwearied  sun, 
That  gives  whate'er  he  shines  upon 

A  glorious  beam. 


u 


HISTORICAL   SKETCH. 


M 


Tfai  mine  your  boeooM  to  inipire 
With  genint'  wvmort,  tirigliteil  fire ; 

Tiaytmn,  In  tarn, 
WhQe  praalnf  for  the  ttiiut  of  Fame, 
To  fwell  her  reeordi  with  each  name, 
To  make  thia  heavca-enkindled  flame 

For  ercr  bvn. 


**  To  flatter  title,  birth,  or  atate. 
The  poorly  rich,  or  meanly  great, 

Was  nerer  gjven 
So  rich  a  boon  on  Katnre'a  part : 
Oh,  nerer  thoa  degrade  an  art, 
Dedgned  to  UA  the  human  heart 

From  earth  to  heaven  I 

"  And  enry  not  the  cobweb-wreathe 
That  many  a  modem  rhymer  weaves, 

His  brows  to  grace  ; 
For  these  are  bot  Mimosa's  form 
Amid  Boreas'  wint'ry  storm. 
Or  hoar-frost  'mid  the  bloshes  warm 

Of  Phoebos'  face. 

**  And  e'en  the  weU-eamed  fame  reftise 
Of  Milton's,  Pope's,  and  Tbompiioo's  mnse ; 

Though  fresh  shall  bloom 
Their  laurels  in  the  muse's  page, 
And  each  historian's  pen  engage, 
Though  they  tiiemselves  from  age  to  age 

Sleep  in  the  tomb. 

"  Nay,  oopy  not  the  noblest  lays 
Of  ancient  or  of  modem  days. 

The  genuine  bard 
Dashes  all  rales  of  art  aside. 
And,  taking  Nature  for  his  guide, 
Beapa,  as  he  roams  creation  wide, 

A  rich  reward. 

^  For  what,  my  child,  Is  genuine  song  f 
'TIS  not,  as  Fashion's  giddy  throng 

Soodendeem, 
Tbi>  far-fetched,  witty,  odd  conceit. 
Which  all  may  write,  as  ail  repeat ; 
Nor  number,  measure,  rhyme,  nor  feet 

That  gild 


*<  It  is  an  undefined  control 
That  fires,  transports,  illumes  the  soul 

With  secret  swsy ; 
And,  reckless  as  to  phrase  or  form. 
Bursts  forth  in  Unfcusge  bold  and  warm, 
Like  sunshine  blsslng  through  the  storm 
Of  wintfT's  day. 


n 


'TU  not  pale  Cynthia's  feeble  light, 
Faintrglimmering  through  a  cheerieai  night. 

Cold,  sdU,  proToo^ ; 
'TIS  not  a  gloomy,  stagnant  lake. 
Whose  sleep  no  babbling  rivuleta  hg^idi ; 
'TIS  not  the  brecxe  that  searee  can  wake 

The  edbo's  sound. 


""  It  is  the  brilliant  northem  dawn. 
In  all  the  chaogefril  colors  drawn 

That  bards  describe ; 
'TIS  now  a  river  deep  and  strong. 
Rolling  in  nugesty  along ; 
Anon,  a  whirlwind  'mid  the  throng 

Of  Fkcm's  tribe. 


u 


u 


'TIS  now  the  thunder's  awAil  roar. 
Borne  by  ten  thousand  eehoea  o'er 
The  vault  of  heaven ; 
Now,  the  swiA  lightning's  vivid  raya, 
As  o'er  the  clouds  it  lambent  pl^ya ; 
Anon,  the  dread  volcano's  blase, 
With  friry  driven. 

Tis  now  the  pine*s  mi^|estSo  form 
Which,  heedless  of  the  winter's  storm. 

Is  seen  to  bloom 
From  age  to  age  in  youthfbl  prime ; 
And  now  a  pyrmmid  snblime, 
That  fells  but  with  the  feU  of  Time, 

And  ihares  his  tomb.^ 

She  ceased.    Around  her  sainted  head 
An  arrowy  ^here  of  radiance  spread. 

Intensely  bright ; 
And,  mounting  high  on  wings  of  wind. 
She  soared  through  ether  nnconflned. 
And  leA  a  brilliant  trace  bdiind, 

Of  vivid  li^t 

So,  sinking  in  the  westem  main. 
Far  up  the  heaven  a  lucid  train 

Bright  Sol  displays: 
So,  darting  through  exterior  ikiea, 
In  crimson  patlis,  the  fire-ball  IBea, 
And  for  a  moment  dims  our  eyes 

With  daailing  Uaie. 

A  holy  silence  reigned  around ; 
And,  as  I  left  the  enchanted  ground 

Where  late  she  stood. 
Diviner  spirits  hovered  there. 
More  frisgrmot  breathed  the  balmy  air. 
And  the  frill  mooo  nhowed  doubly  fair 

Ohio's  flood. 


JOHN  M.  HARNEY. 


John  M.  Habket,  the  second  son  of  Thomas  Hamej,  an  officer  in  the  Amer- 
ican armj  daring  the  war  for  independence,  was  bom  on  the  ninth  of  March, 
1789,  in  Sussex  county,  Delaware.  In  the  year  1791,  the  family  emigrated  to  Ten- 
nessee, and  afterward  removed  to  Louisiana.  An  older  brother  became  a  surgeon  in 
the  army,  and  a  younger  one  was  commissioned  as  a  Lieutenant  in  1818.  In  1847 
he  was  brevetted  a  Brigadier  Greneral  for  services  at  Cerro  Grordo,  and  is  now  com- 
mander of  the  American  forces  on  the  Pacific  frontier  of  Oregon. 

John  M.  studied  medicine  and  settled  at  Bardstown,  Kentucky.  In  1814  he  was 
married  to  a  daughter  of  Judge  John  Rowan.  The  death  of  his  wife,  about  four, 
years  after  their  weddmg,  weighed  so  seriously  upon  him  that  he  abandoned  his  prac- 
tice at  Bardstown,  and,  after  a  brief  visit  to  Tennessee,  went  to  Europe.  He  traveled 
in  Great  Britain,  France  and  Spain.  Then,  receiving  a  naval  appointment,  spent 
several  years  at  Buenos  Ayres.  On  his  return  to  the  United  States,  he  resided  for  a 
few  months  at  Savannah,  Georgia,  where  he  conducted  a  political  newspaper.  Severe 
exertion  at  a  disastrous  fire,  in  that  dty,  was  the  cause  of  a  violent  fever  which  under- 
mined his  constitution.  He  returned  to  Bardstown  with  broken  health,  and  died  there 
on  the  fifteenth  of  January,  1825. 

Excepting  '' Crystalina,  a  Fairy  Tale,"  in  six  cantos,  which  was  published  in  1816, 
Mr.  Harney's  poems  were  not  given  to  the  world  till  afler  his  death.  William  D. 
Gallagher,  who  examined  his  manuscripts,  found  several  poems  he  deemed  superior 
to  any  by  Mr.  Harney  that  have  been  published,  but  we  have  not  been  able  to  obtain 
copies  of  any  of  them.  The  lines,  "To  a  Valued  Friend,"  "Echo  and  the  Lover,"  and 
"The  Whippowil,"  were  first  published  in  The  Western  Literary  Journal^  in  1837, 
edited  by  Mr.  Gallagher.  "  The  Echo "  has  had  as  wide  a  circulation  as  any  poem 
ever  written  in  the  western  country.  It  is  the  original  of  many  verses  on  the  same 
theme,  since  published  both  in  England  and  America.  Respecting  "  Crystalina," 
Rafiis  Wilmot  Griswold,  in  his  PoeU  and  Poetry  of  America^  said : 

"Crystalina"  was  completed  when  Bir.  Harney  was  about  twenty-three  years  of  age,  but  in  con- 
sequence of  "  the  proverbial  indifference,  and  even  contempt,  with  which  Americans  receive  the 
workg  of  their  countrymen,"  he  informs  us,  in  a  brief  preface,  was  not  published  until  1816,  when 
it  appeared  anonymously  in  New  York.  It  received  much  attention  in  the  leading  literary  journals 
of  that  day.  Its  obvious  faults  were  freely  censured,  but  upon  the  whole  it  was  reviewed  with 
UDofiual  manifestations  of  kindly  interest  The  sensitive  poet,  however,  was  so  deeply  wounded  by 
some  unfavorable  criticisms  that  he  suppressed  nearly  all  the  copies  he  had  caused  to  be  printed,  so 

that  it  has  dnce  been  among  our  rarest  books. 

(26) 


L 


«*  i*.>US    M.   HARNEY.  [1820-30. 

*rs.  •^^i*  ^  .•u«*4>  oiuaM  iftift  i«f«ndiioQ»  that  prevailed  amoag  the  highlands  of  Scollaod. 
V  «..^«^»u  >«%>.  Mi»4  Vlta^TKaL  »  rmtn^  by  the  knight  Riiialdo,  who  Infonns  him  that  the 
>*v*AM^a   '4   k  ii»4«afc  iMtttai  ^*i  4B  «i1t  daughter.  CryBtalina,  with  whom  he  had  fialleD  in  lore; 


a«M  (H  Hftb«.x«»  ^4iiM%l  tM  8MR7  him  mnk«a  he  first  diKtinguiidifd  hiniKc>lf  in  battle ;  that  he 
wtK«.«  4  aoAVk  ^r^«*&ii»  til  tka^ers  bloodj  path."  and  returned  to  claim  his  promised  rewaid.  Iwt 
^.w^  UtiHHM.d  oi  rMt>  ai«»ikfCt(MM  diMppifarance  of  the  maid  of  wbotte  fate  no  indioatiooi  cookl  be 
it^o.«  t%^»  uid  Ul*4  ^-  for  yvn  bad  w^Anrbvd  for  her  in  vain  thnmgh  every  qaarter  of  the  wurkL 
!ii  tM|»;vk«»  vhc  aid  s^  lb«  Mer.  «bo  atfcertains  from  familiar  Hpirits,  summoned  bj  his  spells,  that 
t.>^%Mi4iiti^  ^Nui  b«vu  jH^eo  by  i^^rfon,  and.  arming  Rinaldo  with  a  cross  and  con8(>crated  weapons, 
.%-.iduv;i^  *i»ui  t\>  a  aiyHtic  ciivW,  within  which,  upon  the  performance  of  a  detscribed  ceremony,  the 
.••ubb  o|KUJ»  atid  diKU'«<*'»  »he  m%j  to  Fairy  Land.  In  the  second,  third  and  foarth  cantos  are 
jvluud  liK'  kiiiK^t*H  aaveuiuresin  that  golden  subWrranean  realm  ;   the  varioos  stratagems  and 

iKh.uUiiiviitci  by  >»biv'h  its  A>vervlgn  endeavored  to  seduce  or  terrify  him  ;  his  annihilation  of  all 
v»t«»tMcU^  by  exhibiting  the  cr\ti»  ;  the  discovery  of  Crystalina.  transformed  into  a  bird,  in  Oberou*t 
(AddML^o  ;  ib^  QfteaiM  by  which  she  was  restored  to  her  natural  form  of  beanty  ;  and  the  triamphant 
kvuuu  g4  Uie  lo%er«  lo  th«  app^*r  air.  In  the  fifth  and  sixth  cantos,  it  U  revealed  that  Altagraad 
tH  lb.'  iHihcr  v»f  KiiiaKKs  and  the  early  Mend  of  the  father  of  Crj^talina,  with  whom  he  had  fought 
III  the  holy  >»ar*  agalmrt  the  infidel.    The  king, 

''  ta«|4i«4  with  y>j  and  wIm, 

ftMA  kli  loM*  kwiu  shook  off  thm  aovi  oT  ttmo," 

ikiKl   c. UlH  aixl  th*»  rvrt^vration  v(  hU  child  and  his  frl«nd.  and  the  resignation  of  his  crown  to 
R»u*;iaKS  lu  a  Wwadul  soHg  : 


Y«  i«IU«c  trmnm  uukm  llqsld  melody, 

Att4  tiMMV  Into  the  ma. 
\M  n«>l  ru^  BorvM.  on  thto  hAleyon  dar, 

r^»rta  la  hia  alonnj  eharlol  \m  whirM ; 
tH  »»t  s  riood  lU  nTrn  wlaga  dlnpUy, 

K**  »hoo«  tb*  oak-ivDdlDR  Hjchtninini  at  th«  worid. 
b»l  Jo««,  ana^k>aa.  fton  bla  nd  rifht  haod. 

Lay  dtmn  hb  thundvr  braoU— 
A  vblbl  I  kwt,  bat  two  Cbit  dajr  bava  fbond, 

IM  lbs  aartb  ahoul,  aod  lat  tba  akka  RM>aiuL 

«« IM  Almros  ftwKi*  bar  dtamal  tnda. 

And  eaat  bar  fklal,  bonid  Bhean  awajr, 
Wblla  lAThMit  •pine  out  a  firmer  thr«aJ ; 

Ufi  boatlla  analM  bokl  a  tmca  to-dar, 
And  frtm<AM<ad  war  wa«h  white  hU  g<)ry  haoil, 

AtMl  Mnll»  arovod  the  land— 
A  child  1  kial,  bnt  two  thU  day  have  Ibund, 

l4Pt  tba  aartb  about,  aod  let  the  «kk^  rvaound. 

**  Lat  all  Iba  ptara  at  InfloeDca  benlfn. 

ThU  tmmmX  night  In  beoTeoIy  lynol  meet. 
Lat  Mar*  and  Vanua  ba  in  happy  trine. 

And  00  the  wide  world  look  with  a«i|»M>t  iwrei; 
And  h*t  the  n.^Rlle  nunle  •{  the  vphem 

Me  amtlbla  to  mortal  aaf*— 
A  child  I  loMt,  bat  two  thia  day  hare  fi»uod. 

Than  ahoot.  oh  aartb,  and  tboa.  oh  wa,  rraoond.** 

lu  l^U*.  Mr.  Jvixn  Neal  was  e<1U{ng  The  Portico,  u  monthly  niA;:aztn<'  at  Baltimore,  and  be 
re\tt>wtM  ihU  |Hiem  In  a  long  and  characUTistio  articU*.  Aftrr  nmarking  that  it  was  ^^  the  moat 
•pUtidul  |M«aluoliiin  **  that  ev(T  came  U*forv  him,  ht*  sayx  :  **  \Vc  can  produce  passagi«  twm  'Crya- 
uUiui '  y^UWU  have  not  U*en  aiirpaMM.*d  in  onr  language  Simmiht  himM*lf,  who  seemed  to  hav< 
cmih1«'U»«'«1  all  i\w  nMliaiHH*  of  fairy-land  upon  his  starry  \nm*\  never  dreami'd  of  more  eiquisitely 
lHu«  itul  iHTiu  ry  thuu  that  which  <Kir  bard  has  sometiuK'S  p;uiit«><l.  .  .  .  Had  this  poet  written 
Ih  luiv  ShaW"»j»i'ar*'  hiuI  S)hiint,  h*'  would  have  been  acknowU-^l^il  •  the  child  of  fancy.'  .... 
llail  lit-  dartHl  to  think  lor  hiniM^'.f  -to  blot  ont  some  passagfu.  which  his  judgment,  we  are  sure, 
t'ouUl  tioi  ha^r  approvt^    the  remainder  would  have  done  credit  to  any  poet,  living  or  de&XV 


1€20-30.] 


JOHN  M.  HARNEY. 


27 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "  CRYSTALINA." 

8TLPHS  BATHING. 

The  shores  with  acclamations  rung, 
.As  in  the  flood  the  playful  damsels  sprung: 
XJpon  their  beauteous  bodies,  with  delight, 
The  billows  leapt  Oh,  'twas  a  pleasant  sight 
To  see  the  waters  dimple  round,  for  joy. 
Climb  their  white   necks,  and  on   their 

bosoms  toy: 
Like  snowy  swans  they  vex'd  the  spark- 

hng  tide. 
Till  Httle  rainbows  danced  on  every  side, 
Some  swam,  some  floated,  some  on  pearly 

feet 
Stood  sidelong,  smiling,  exquisitely  sweet 


TITANIA'S  CONCERT. 

In  robes  of  green,  fresh  youths  the  concert 

led, 
Measuring  the  while,  with  nice,  emphatic 

tread 
Of  tinkling  sandals,  the  melodious  sound 
Of  smitten  timbrels;   some  with  myrtles 

crown'd. 
Pour  the  smooth  current  of  sweet  melody. 
Through  ivory  tubes;  some  blow  the  bugle 

free. 
And  some,  at  happy  intervals  around. 
With  trumps  sonorous  swell  the  tide  of 

sound; 
Some,  bending  raptured  o'er  their  golden 

lyres, 
\rith  cunning  fingers  fret  the  tuneful  wires ; 
AVith  rosy  lips  some  press  the  siren  shell. 
And,  through  its  crimson  labyrinths,  impel 
^Mellifluous  breath,  with  artful  sink  and 

swelL 
Some  blow  the  mellow,  melancholy  horn, 
^Which,  save  the  knight,  no  man  of  woman 

bom 
E'er  heard  and  fell  not  senseless  to  the 

ground, 
With    viewless   fetters   of     enchantment 
bound. 


.  .  .  .  "Thrice  had  yon  moon  her  pearly 

chariot  driven 
Across  the  starry  wilderness  of  heaven, 
In  lonely  grandeur;  thrice  the  morning  star 
Danced  on  the  eastern  hills  before  Hype- 


rion s  car. 


tt 


.  .  .  .  "  Deep  silence  reigned,  so  still,  so 

deep,  and  dread, 
That  they  might  hear  the  fairy's  lightest 

tread, 
Might  hear  the  spider  as  he  wove  his  snare, 
From  rock  to  rock." 


.  .  .  .  "The  mountain-tops,  oak-crowned. 
Tossed  in  the  storm  and  echoed  to  the 

sound 
Of   trees   uptom,  and    thunders    rolling 

round." 

.  .  .  .  "The  prowlers  of  the  wood 

Fled  to  their  caves,  or,  crouching  with 
alarm, 

Howled  at  the  passing  spirits  of  the  storm ; 

Eye-blasting  specters  and  bleached  skele- 
tons 

With  snow-white  raiment  and  disjointed 
bones, 

Before  them  strode,  and  meteors  flickering 
dire. 

Around  them  trailed  their  scintillating  fire." 


.  .  .  .  "The  fearless  songsters  sing. 
And  round  me  flutter  with  familiar  wing. 
Or  mid  the  flowers  like  sunbeams  glance 

about, 
Sipping,  with  slender  tongues,  the  dainty 

nectar  out" 


•  •  •  .  "Mom  ascending  from  the  spark- 
ling main, 

Unlocked  her  golden  magazines  of  light, 

And  on  the  sea,  and  heaven's  cerulean 
plain. 

Showered  liquid  rubies,  while  retreating 
night 

In  other  climes  her  starred  pavilion  spread." 


TBE  FEVER  DREAM. 

A  FETER  scorched  my  bodj,  fired  my 

brainy 
Like  laya  in  Vesuviug,  boiled  my  blood 
Within  the  glowing  cayems  of  my  heart 
I  raged  with  thirst,  and  begged  a  cold,  clear 

dranght 
Of  fountain  water. — 'Twas  with  tears 

denied. 
I  drank  a  nauseous  febrifuge,  and  slept ; 
But  rested    not — harassed    with    horrid 

dreams 
Of  burning  deserts,  and  of  dusty  pliuns. 
Mountains  disgorging  flames — forests  on 

fire, 
Steam,  sonshine,  smoke,  and  ever-boiling 


L 


Ilills  of  hot  sand,  and  glowing  stones  that 

seemed 
Embers  and  ashes  of  a  burnt  up  world! 

Thirst  raged  within  me« — I  sought  the 

deepest  Tale, 
And  called  on  all  the  rocks  and  caves  for 

water; — 
I  climbed  a  mountain,  and  from  cliff  to  cliff 
Pumied    a    flying    cloud,    howling    for 

water: — 
I  crushed  the  withered  herbs,  and  gnawed 

dry  roots, 

Still  crying,  Waterl— Whfle  the  difis  and 
caves, 

In  horrid  mockery,  re-echoed  "  Water  r 

Iklow  the  mountain  gleamed  a  dty,  red 

With  solar  flame,  upon  the  sandy  bank 

Of  a  broad  river. — **  Soon,  oh  soon  T I  cried, 

^  111  cool  my  burning  body  in  that  flood, 

And  quaff  my  filL" — I  ran — I  reached  the 

shore. 

The  river  was  dried  up.    Its  oozy  bed 

Was  dust;  and  on  its  arid  rocks,  I  saw 

The  scaly  myriads  fry  beneath  the  sun  I 

Where  sank  the  channel  decpeitt,  I  beheld 

A  stirring  multitude  of  human  forms. 

And  heard  a  faint,  wild,  lamentable  waiL 


Thither  I  sped,  and  joined  the  general  cry 
OfWaterr    They  had  delved  a  ^MKaoot 

pit 
In  search  of  hidden  fountains;   sad,  sad 

sight! 
I  saw  them  rend  the  rocks  up  in  their  rage, 
With  mad  impatience  calling  on  the  earth 
To  open  and  yield  up  her  cooling  apringa. 

Meanwhile  the  skies,  oo  whieh  they 

dared  not  gaze. 
Stood  o*er  them  like  a  canopy  of  brass — 
Undimmed  by  moisture.    The  red  dognrtw 

raged, 
And  Phoebus  from  the  house  of  Vhrgo  shot 
His  scorching  shafts.    The  thirsty  multi- 
tude 
Grew  still  more  frantic    Those  who  dug 

the  earth 
Fell  lifeless  on  the  rocks  they  strained  to 

upheave, 
And  filled  again,  with  their  own  carcasses, 
The  pits  they  made — undoing  their  own 

work! 
Despair  at  length  drove  out  the  kborers, 
At  sight  of  whom  a  general  groan  an- 

nounced 
The  death  of  hope.    Ah  I  now  no  more 

was  heard 
The  cry  of  "  Water!"    To  the  dty  next, 
Howling,  we  ran — all  hurrying  without 

aim: — 
Thence  to  the  woods.     The  baked  plain 

gaped  for  moisture. 
And  from  it^i  arid  breast  heaved  smoke, 

that  seemed 
Breath  of  a  furnace — fierce,  volcanic  fire, 
Or  hot  monsoon,  that  raifics  Syrian  sands 
To  clouds.     Amid  the  forests  we  espied 
A  fiunt  and  bleating  herd.    Sudden  a  shrill 
And  horrid  8hout  aroee  of  ^ Blood!  blood! 

blood  r 
We  fell  upon  them  with  a  tiger's  thirst. 
And  drank  up  all  the  blood  that  was  not 

human! 
We  were  dyed  in  blood!   Despair  returned; 


1820-30.] 


JOHN    M.    HARNEY. 


29 


The  cry  was  hushed,  and  dumb  confusion 

reigned. 
Even  then,  when  hope  was  dead ! — ^all  past 

hope— 
I  heard  a  laugh  I  and  saw  a  wretched  man 
Rip  madly  his  own  veins,  and  bleeding, 

drink 
With  eager  joj.    The  example  seized  on 

all:— 
Each  fell  upon  himself,  tearing  his  veins 
Fiercely  in  search  of  blood!    And  some 

there  were, 
Who,  having  emptied  their  own  veins,  did 

seize 
Their  neighbors'  arms,  and  slay  them  for 

their  blood. 
Oh!  happy  then  were  mothers  who  gave 

suck. 
They  dashed  their  little  infants  from  their 

breasts, 
And  their  shrunk  bosoms  tortured  to  extract 
The  bahny  juice,  oh!  exquisitely  sweet 
To  their  parched  tongues!  'Tisdone! — ^now 

all  is  gone ! 
Blood,  water,  and  the  bosom's  nectar, — ^all! 

^Bend,  oh!  ye  lightnings!   the  sealed 

firmament. 
And  flood  a  burning  world. — Rain !  rain ! 

pour!  pour! 
Open,  ye  windows  of  high  fleaven !  and  pour 
The  mighty  deluge!     Let  us  drown,  and 

drink 
Luxurious  death!     Ye  earthquakes,  split 

the  globe, 
The  solid,  rock-ribbed  globe !   and  lay  all 

bare, 
Its  subterranean  rivers,  and  fresh  seas !" 

Thus  raged  the  multitude.  And  many  fell 
In  fierce  convulsions; — ^many  slew  them- 
selves. 

And  now  I  saw  the  dty  all  in  flames — 
The  forest  burning — ^and  the  very  earth  on 
fire! 


I  saw  the  mountains  open  with  a  roar, 
Loud  as  the  seven  apocalyptic  thunders. 
And  seas  of  lava  rolling  headlong  down. 
Through  crackling  forests  fierce,  and  hot 

as  hell, 
Down  to  the  plain. — ^I  turned  to  fly, 

and  waked ! 


ECHO  AND  THE  LOVER. 

Lover,  Echo !  mysterious  nymph,  declare 
Of  what  you're  made  and  what  you 
are — 
Echo.  "Air!" 

Lover.  'Mid  airy  cliffs,  and  places  high, 

Sweet  Echo!    listening,  love,  you 

lie — 
Echo.  "You  lie!" 

Lover.  You  but  resuscitate  dead  sounds — 
Hark!  how  my  voice  revives,  re- 
soimds! 
Echo.  "Zounds!" 

Lover.  I'll  question  you  before  I  go- 
Come,  answer  me  more  apropos ! 
Echo.  "Poh!  poh!" 

Lover.  Tell  me,  fair  nymph,  if  e'er  you  saw 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Phoebe  Shaw ! 
Echo.  "Pshaw!" 

Lover.  Say,  what  will  win  that  frisking 
coney 
Lito  the  toils  of  matrimony ! 
Echo.  "Money!" 

Lover.  Has  Phoebe  not  a  heavenly  brow ! 
Is  it  not  white  as  pearl — ^as  snow ! 
Echo.  "Ass,  no!" 

Lover.  Her  eyes !    Was  ever  such  a  pair! 
Are  the  stars  brighter  than  they  are  ? 
Echo.  "They  are!" 


30 


JOHN    M.    HARNEY. 


[1820-SO. 


Lover,  Echo,  yoa  lie,  but  can't  deceive  me ; 
Her  ey^  ecUpM  the  stars,  believe 
me— 
Rcho.  **  Leave  me!" 

Lovtr,  Bat  cometyousaocj,  pert  romancer, 
Who  is  ait  fair  as  Phcebe?  answer. 
Echo.  "Ann,  sir!" 


THE  WHIPPOWIL. 

TiiKKK  is  a  strange,  mysterious  bird, 
Which  few  have  i*ecn,  but  all  have  heard: 
He  niu  Ufion  a  fallen  tree, 
Hiruugli  all  the  night,  and  thus  sings  he : 

Whippowil ! 

Whippowil ! 

Whipjwwil ! 

IVfipiMing  show,  and  empty  noise. 
The  gaudy  HutUtring  thing  he  flies: 
And  in  tin?  echoing  vale  by  night 
Thus  HingH  tiie  jienAivc  anchorite : 

Whippowil  I 

( )li,  hail  I  but  hiri  voice  and  wings, 
IM  i*nvy  not  a  bird  that  sings; 
liut  gUully  would  I  flit  away, 
And  j<iin  tlie  wild  nocturnal  by : 

Whip|K>wil  I 

Thi«  school-lMiy,  tripping  home  in  hartte, 
lni|»iili('iit  of  the  nightV  n*|MiMt, 
Wiaild  Mtop  to  hear  uiy  whii«tli*  shrill, 
And  iniMWiT  me  with  mimir  nkill : 

WhipjMiwil ! 


The  rich  man's  scorn,  the  poor  man's 
Folly  in  silk,  and  Wimlom  bare. 
Virtue  on  foot,  and  Vice  astride. 
No  more  should  vex  me  while  I 

Whippowil 


How  blest ! — Nor  loneliness  nor  state, 
Nor  fame,  nor  wealth,  nor  knre,  nor  hate. 
Nor  av'rice,  nor  ambition  viun. 
Should  e'er  disturb  my  tranquil  strain : 

Whippowil  1 
Whippowil ! 
Whippowil! 


ON  A  VALUED  FRIEND. 

Devoitt,  yet  cheerfbl;  pious,  not  anstere; 
To  others  lenient,  to  himself  severe ; 
Tho'  honored,  modest ;  diffident,  tho'  prais'd ; 
The  proud  he  humbled,  and  the  humble 

rais'd; 
Studious,  yet  social;    though  polite,  yet 

[>luin ; 
No  man  more  learned,  yet  no  man  less  vain. 
Hi?  fame  would  universal  envy  move, 
But  envvV  lo<t  in  universal  love. 
That  he  \\:%»  faults,  it  may  be  bold  to  doabt, 
Yet  certain  'tL*  we  ne'er  have  found  them 

out. 
If  faulti^  ho  has  (as  man,  'tis  said,  must 

have). 
Tliey  are  the  only  fault**  he  ne'er  forgave. 
I  flatter  not :  alM«urd  to  flatter  where 
Ju>t  praise  i.-*  ful'^ome,  and  oflTcnds  the 


••• 


PEYTON  SHORT  SYMMES. 


i; 


u 
a 


Peyton  Short  Symmes,  a  nephew  of  John  Cleves  Symmes,  the  well  known  pio- 
neer of  the  Miami  purchase,  may  he  recorded  as  one  of  the  earliest  hards  of  the  West 
He  is  very  nearly  of  the  same  age  as  the  city  of  Cincmnati.  He  saw  the  first  Legisla- 
ture of  the  North- West  Territory  in  session  in  Cincinnati,  in  1799,  and  he  was  a  wit- 
ness of  the  festivities  in  honor  of  the  visit  of  the  Legislatures  of  Tennessee,  Kentucky 
and  Ohio  to  that  city,  in  January,  1860.  His  recollections  of  men  and  places,  of  writ- 
ers, of  periodicals  and  of  books,  extend  over  the  entire  history  of  literary  enterprises 
in  Ohio.  He  deserves  to  be  remembered,  not  only  for  what  he  has  written,  but  for 
what  he  has  done  to  encourage  others  to  write.  For  fif^y  years  at  least  he  has  been 
the  ready  referee  on  questions  of  art  and  literature  for  nearly  all  the  journalists  and 
authors  of  Cincinnati,  and  a  kindly  critic  for  the  inexperienced  who,  before  rushing 
into  print,  were  wise  enough  to  seek  good  advice. 

Li  1817,  and  for  many  years  thereafter,  Mr.  Symmes  was  Renter  of  the  Land  Of- 
fice at  Cincinnati.  From  1830  to  1833  he  was  a  member  of  the  City  Council.  In  1833 
he  was  chosen  one  of  the  School  Trustees,  and  until  1849  was  an  active  member  of 
that  Board.  Several  of  its  most  elaborate  reports  were  from  his  pen.  From  1830  to 
1850  he  was  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Health.  We  remember  him  well  in  that  ca- 
pacity, as  a  self-sacrificing  public  servant,  when,  in  1849,  the  cholera  was  epidemic  in 
Cincinnati. 

Mr.  Symmes  was  one  of  the  Trustees  of  the  old  Cincinnati  College,  and  an  earnest 
supporter  of  the  Western  College  of  Teachers  which  met  annually  in  Cincinnati,  from 
1831  till  1845.  He  was  identified  with  nearly  all  the  early  literary  societies  of  that 
dty.  In  1816  he  wrote  the  New  Year's  Lay  for  the  carriers  of  the  Cincinnati  Gor 
3dte.  Those  carriers  were  Wesley  Smead — since  well  known  as  a  Banker — and  Ste- 
phen S.  L'Hommedieu,  now  known  throughout  the  West  as  the  President  of  the  Hamil- 
ton and  Dayton  Railroad.  The  "  Lines  on  Winter,"  hereafter  quoted,  are  from  that 
lay.  Li  1824r-25,  Mr.  Symmes  was  one  of  the  principal  writers  for  the  Literary  Ga- 
zette—edited  and  published  for  two  years  by  John  P.  Foote,  then  a  bookseller — ^a  quarto 
journal  which  appeared  semi-monthly.  It  was  conducted  with  spirit  and  good  taste. 
Its  chief  contributors  were  Benjamin  Drake,  Ethan  Allen  Brown,  Fitz  Greene  Hal- 
leck,  John  H.  James,  Julia  L.  Dumont,  Thomas  Peirce,  Daniel  Drake,  John  P. 
Darbin,  John  Locke,  David  T.  Disney,  and  Mr.  Symmes. 

For  the  Cincinnati  Chronicle^  conducted  by  Benjamin  Drake,  in  1826,  and  the 
Mirror,  edited  by  Wm.  D.  Gallagher,  between  1831  and  1835,  Mr.  Symmes  wrote 
often  both  in  prose  and  verse.  In  later  years  he  has  rarely  written  for  either  news- 
papers or  magazines,  but  it  is  understood  that  he  has  been  preparing  a  biography  of 
^  nncle,  John  Cleves  Symmes.  We  trust  it  will  be  completed,  because  it  must  pos- 
sess peculiar  interest,  as  a  picture  of  early  times  in  the  West 

(31) 


32 


PEYTON   SHORT   SYMMES. 


[1820-30. 


FBOM  TBI  mnr 


LINES  ON  WINTER. 

Tt4m'i  &AT  voB  in  avoaniATi 
181ft. 


The  northern  blast  is  loud  and  shrilly 
The  streamlet's  gurgling  voice  is  still ! 
Where  gabbling  broods  disported  late. 
The  urchin  now  applies  the  skate; 
And  where  so  lately  sailed  the  boat. 
Naught  but  the  crashing  ice-cakes  float ! 

The  sylvan  meads  present  no  more 
The  verdant  hues  they  gave  before; 
And  leafless,  boar,  and  rugged,  now, 
How  bleakly  waves  the  forest  bough  I 

E'en  the  plumed  warblers  of  the  wild. 
Whose  notes  our  sultry  iiours  beguiled. 
No  longer  give  the  melting  strain. 
But  8iH*k  their  wint'ry  haunts  again. 

The  fainting  sun,  above,  displays 
Hb  feeble  warmth  and  glimmering  rays ; — 
And  in  a  tDinding-thett  of  :<now, 
All  nature  seems  to  sleep  below ! 

And  yet,  tho*  winter  may  appear 
Thus  gloomy,  and  devoid  of  cheer ;  — 
Tlio'  comfort  may  be  thought  to  flow 
But  coldly  o'er  a  waste  of  snow ;  — 
Still  may  the  hearth  where  friends  combine, 
And  bend  before  the  social  hhrine. 
Give  pleasures  more  than  half  divine ! 

How  sweet  around  the  Christmas  fire. 
To  gaze  and  li^t4*n,  and  ailmins 
Wh<*n  beauty's  fairy  fingers  fly. 
And  wake  the  l»ar})'s  wikl  melody ! 
Or,  as  her  magic  voi«»  n'fines 
Som«^  favored  minstrel's  glowing  lines. 
How  swe<»t  to  flnd  the  [>oet's  tone 
And  f<.'<'liiig,  h(Mghtene<l  by  Xwv  own !  — 
Or,  flfMctl  (*ach  fas<*inating  |»iige 
Of  lightMHiM*  bnnl,  or  rfv«'nMul  sage, — 
How  <lf'ar  with  li«r,  for  hour*  to  range 
In  llmt  liannonious  interchange 
(M'  kind  and  vnrit'd  (imvi'rj*e  gay, 
Whirh  ilriv«"»  all  earthly  ran*?*  away! 

Or,  change<l  the  S(*ene, — with  what  de* 

liRht, 


Through  half  the  festive  winter^s  night, 

We  prize  the  oft  repeated  chance 

To  weave  with  her  the  sprightly  dance : 

Whose  "  poetry  of  motion  "  seems 

To  realize  Elysian  dreams, — 

And  shows,  e'en  lovelier  than  before, 

The  Maid  we,  next  to  Heaven,  adore ! 

Yet,  dearer  far  than  all  that  e'er 
Ev'n  graced  the  merriest  Christmas  cheer. 
Is  that  short  soul-enlivening  sound 
Which  heals  the  impassioned  lover's  wound. 
And  gains  him,— o'er  each  peril  past. 
The  haven  of  his  hopes  at  last ! 
For  O !  who  yet  untaught  can  guess  ^— 
Or  who,  tliat  knows,  with  human  powcn 

express 
His  high-toned  raptures  at  the  favimng 

"YesI" 


SONNET  TO  HEALTH. 

PAEAraiutn>  rmoM  de.  joaxtoir^f  pmm  Tiiiwiiif 
or  ABifTocirosi't  oans  am  to  auuni. 


Hail  sovereign  health! — Heav'n's  earli- 
est Ikjou  to  earth ! 
With  tho4*  let  all  my  future  hours  be  pasi^! 
Wliile  o't-r  our  forms  thy  fairy  robe  is  cast, 
Lo,  sadn<*!*:4  flie?*  l)efore  the  voice  of  mirth! 
For,  all  the  cliamis  that  lurk  in  Beauty's 
wile. 
In  lovr-eni'ircled  homes,— or  mines  of 

gokl, — 
Deprived  of  th«»e,  are  cheerless,  dim  and 
<x»!<l, — 
And,  ev'n    imperial   splendor  courts  thy 

smile ! 
Nay — mid  the  highe»*t  forms   of  earthly 
joy. 
With   Hhi(*h    Celestials    8oi\en    human 

cares. 
To  Tliee  we  still  prefer  our  ardent  pni  J- 


1820-30.] 


PEYTON  SHORT  SYMMBS. 


33 


For  thou,  alone,  hast  charms  that  never 
cloy. 

Thy  kindling  smile  misfortune's  eye  re- 
lumes; 

And  in  thy  roseate  bowers,  the  spring  of 
pleasure  blocnns! 


APPEAL  FOR  GREECE.* 

WuEN  lowly   merit  feels    misfortune's 
blow, 
And  seeks  relief  from  penury  and  woe, — 
How  bounds  with  rapture  every  generous 

heart, 
To  share  its  treasures,  and  its  hopes  im- 
part,— 
As,  rising  o'er  the  sordid  lust  of  gold. 
It  shows  the  impress  of  a  heavenly  mould ! 

And,  if  a  single  sufferer  thus  may  find 
Each   eye   o'erfiowing,  and   each   bosom 

kind, — 
How  should  we  feel  when  nations  rend  the 

air 
With  blended  shouts  of  victory  or  despair! 
How  feel,  when  glorious  Greece  herself 

appears,— 

Sublime  o'er  ruins  of  a  thousand  years, — 
Recites  the  harrowing  story  of  her  woes. 
Since  first  the  Turkish  crescent  o'er  her 

rose, — 
And  asks  of  free  America  the  aid 
Which  lies  in  every  freeman's  heart  and 

blade! 

Such  is  the  land  which  now  contends 
alone. 
In  proud  defiance  of  a  tyrant's  throne; — 


^Bedtod  by  the  author  in  the  dncinnati  tbeater.  Feb- 
nurjr  24Ui,  1824,  at  a  Thespian  perlbimanee  for  the  benefit 
or  the  Orwke,  which  reaolted  in  a  contribution  of  9800  to 
the  Greek  fnnd  in  New  York. 


Beneath  whose  sway  for  centuries  she  bore 
The  wrongs  and  suff'rings  she  shall  feel 
no  more! 

The  long  dark  night  of  stem  oppression's 

reign 
At  last  is  o'er, — and  freedom  smiles  again ; 
Smiles  to  behold  how  all-defacing  Time 
Has   swept   in  vain   o'er  that  delightful 

clime, — 
Nor  yet  subdued  the  spirit  which,  of  yore 
Shed  glory's  halo  round  her  classic  shore ! 
What  though  her  towers  are  fall'n,  her 

arts  decayed, 
Not  time  alone  the  moumfril  change  hath 

made : — 
'  Twas  slavery^s  mildew-breath,  and  rapine's 

sway. 
That    tore    her    sculptured    monuments 

away, — 
Till  ev'n  within  Minerva's  sacred  dome, 
The  mosque  has  found  a  desolated  home! 

And  shall  Columbia's  rulers  coldly  stand, 
With  listless  gaze  and  unextended  hand, 
Till  Greece,  regenerate,  shall  her  freedom 

find, — 
Or  firmer  fetters  tyranny  rebind? 
Must  Greece,  the  inspiring  theme  of  bard 

and  sage. 
The  pride  of  every  lettered  dime  and  age, — 
Pressed  by  her  impious  foemen,  vainly 

strive 
To  keep  the  hallowed  fiame  of  hope  alive 
Without  one  friendly  arm  the  sword  to 

wield. 
In  freedom's  cause,  on  glory's  battle-field  ? 
Forbid  it,  heaven !— or  be  the  tale  unknown 
That  'twas  not  thus  our  sires  achieved  their 

own! 

In  vain  her  poets  sung,  her  heroes  fought ; 
In  vain  her  sages  stretched  the  bounds  of 

thought ; 
And,  vainly,  matchless  Phidias  toiled  for 

fame, — 


3 


34 


PEYTON    SHORT    .^VMMKS. 


[insa-aiL 


Should  now  a  thankleiB  world  deny  the 

daim! 
And  jet,  when  in  our  councils  lately  rose 
The  voice  of  Bjmpathj  for  Grecian  woes, 
The   noblest    efforts    of   her    champions 

failed, — 
And  cold  mistrost  o'er  eloquence  prevailed! 

Tet,  though  our  cautious  country  maj 

not  send 
Her  fleet,  the  cause  of  freedom  to  defend, — 
Lest  allied  jealousy  the  act  should  view 
As   fraught    with    danger  to  the   kingly 

crewj-^ 
Though  by  our  statesmen  it  is  deemed 

unsafe 
The  angry  lions  in  their  lair  to  chafe, — 
Lest  we  should  rouse  them  to  a  nimbler  leap, 
0*er  the  rude  surges  of  the  **  vasty  deep,** 
And  find  too  late,  by  savage  force  oVr- 

powered, 
We  are  not  ev'n  the  last  to  be  devoured : — 
Though  neither  Turkish  faith  nor  Moslem 

laws 
Mnst  be  invaded— ev'n  in  the  sacred  cause 
Which  aims   to  rescue  from   enthralling 

chains. 
Heroic  millions, — b  whose  fervid  veins 
The  swelling  current  of  the  patriot  flows, — 
In  whose  proud  hearts  the  Spartan's  ardor 

glows: 
Though  nothing  now,a]as!  she  dares  to  give 
To  her  who  nobly  scorns  in  chains  to  live ! — 
Still  may  each  kindred  spirit  plead  her 

cause, 
Nor  wait  the  lingering  sanction  of  our 

laws; — 
Still  may  our  Thespian  band  the  tribute 

Which  from  the  ruthless  spoUer  rends  his 

prey; 
And  waft  to  that  k>ved  land  the  druna's  aid. 
Amid  whose   groves  the    yoong  Thalia 

strayinl. 
And  all  the  tuneibl  nme  their  earliest 

powers  displayed. 


Nor  shall   the   boon   be  k)•t^--tba«gh 

small  the  sum, 
*  Twill  nerve  the  warrior's  arm  when  perik 

come. 
To  know  a  Christian  people's  prayeft  arise. 
With  hope-inspiring  ardor,  to  the  skies, — 
Tliat  heaven's  almiglity  arm  may  interpose, 
And  Greece  be  rescued  from  her  direst 

foes! 


POETIC  ADDRBSa* 

By  nature's  holiest  sympathies  imprestf'd 
With  filial    reverence   sw< 

breast. 
We  meet  to-day  around  the 
With   more    than    viands,  and    ^«*«^!Sfif 

stored: 
Here  memory  comes,  through  tiiBe's  dim 

vail  to  cast 
Her  varic*d  lights  and  shadows  o'er  the  past; 
And  hope  amid  the  joyous  group  appeal^ 
To  gild  the  visions  of  our  futuro  yean ! 

How   green   the   woodlands,  and  how 

bright  the  sky. 
That  mark  youth's  glowing  scenes  in  mas* 

hood's  eye, — 
As  rising  all  unbidden  to  the  view. 
They  tinge  with  rosy  light  life's  dark'ning 

hue! 
— And  yet,  alas,  too  oft  they  may  recall 
The  sad<h*ning  vision  of  some  funeral  pall ; 
And  wake  the  filial  tears  of  fond  regret. 
O'er  thotic  whose  sun  of  life  too  eariy  $ci ! 


•  IstffBrtiid  frnai  ttw  pfor«vdla«*  of  lb«  BvHwjr* 
rtoowr  FMtlTAj.  brld  ftt  ('Inrlnnati,  oa  Cb* 
at  Uw  PtlfriB  iMMliiiff.  Dm>  m.  ISSI.    »*  9lk 
Cunm  STmin    (TV*  OrpaiiMl  ^uterrh  of 


iQMt:  J 


1820-30.] 


PEYTON   SHORT   SYMMES. 


35 


Even  now,  though  dimly,  I  behold  again 
The  vision  of  that  long  funereal  train ; 
Bj  whom, — &Gnk  life's  sad  cares  too  rudely 

torn, — 
Oar  ooffii'd  '^  Patriarch "  to  the  grave  was 

borne: — 
When  he  whose  name  yoor  annak  have 

enshrined 
(Th'  unselfish  benefactor  of  his  kind !) 
Was  laid, — ^where  still  affection  lingering 

grieves, — 
Near  his  loved  home-— among  the  hills  of 

Cletes. 

Thrice  fifteen  summers  have  their  foliage 

cast, 
In  golden  showers,  on  autumn's  fitful  blast, 
Since  first  oar  Sires,  by  beck'ning  hopes 

allured, 
h  yonder  cove,  their  ice-wom  vessels 

moored. 
—At  only  two-soore  years,  I  cannot  claim 
The  memory  that  should  give  their  deeds 

to  fiune; — 
Bat,  for  those  Smss — the  day  wiU  surely 

come 
When  hisf  ry's  voice  no  longer  shall  be 

dambi 

Where  stands  this  Hall,  how  oft  the 

startled  deer 
Fled  from  the  wood-notes  of  the  pioneer. 
As  round  him  the  primeval  forest  bowed. 
And  rude  huts  rose  to  greet  the  coming 

crowd  I 


Aye, — and  how  ofl,  beneatli  those  peopled 
sheds. 

Where  forest  skins  supplied  the  uncur- 
tained beds, 

The  death-doomed  inmates  woke,  with 
shuddering  fear, 

Th'  appalling  yells  of  savage  hordes  to  hear! 

How  changed  the  scene,  since  first,  with 

youthful  eyes, 
I  saw  th'  o'ershadowing  woods  in  grandeur 

rise, 
And  blithely  sought  (alas,  where  are  they 

now?) 
The  flower-decked  mound,  and  vine-en- 
cumbered bough; — 
Or  roamed,  perchance,  along  the  nut-strewn 

vale. 
Wooed  by  the  prc»nise  of  th'  autumnal 

gale;— 
Or,  bathed  in  yonder  stream's  pellucid 

flood. 
Ere  slaughtered  herds  had  dyed  it  with 

their  blood  I 

Through  the  long  vista  of  departed  years. 
The  kindling  eye  now  gazes— dimmed  with 

tears; 
And  now,  with  ma^c  power,  behold,  it 

brings 

The  sweets  of  memory — without  its  stings! 

•  ••••• 

But,  tongues  more  tuneful  shall  these  scenes 

rehearse, — 
For  mine  but  heralds  many  a  nobler  verse. 


»•» 


THOMAS  PEIRCE. 


Thomas  Peirce,  author  of  ^The  Muse  of  Hesperin,**  the  prize  poem  of  the  Gn- 
cinnati  Philomathic  Society,  was  boni  in  Chester  countj,  Penn<:ylvnnia,  oo  the  fourth 
day  of  August,  1786.  His  father  died  in  1791,  wlien  Thomas  was  five  years  okL 
Soon  afterward  he  was  obliged  to  support  himself.  He  worked  on  a  farm  in  summer, 
and  attended  school  in  winter,  till  he  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  when  he  engaged  him- 
self to  a  saddle  and  harness  maker  for  hve  years.  In  that  time  he  became  a  i»ki!lful 
workman,  but  was  not  contented  with  his  occupation,  and  having  been  an  attentive 
student  of  books,  as  well  as  an  industrious  apprentice,  he  found  no  difficulty  in  secure 
ing  an  opfiortunity  to  teach  a  district  school.  When  he  was  twenty-four  yearn  of  age 
he  attended  a  Quaker  Boarding  School  at  New  Garden,  in  his  native  county,  for  tlie 
purpose  of  pursuing  mathematical  studies,  in  which  he  took  great  pleasure.  Ahtt' 
ward  he  taught  a  common  school  in  PhiUdelphia. 

The  tide  of  emigration  then  set  steadily  for  Ohio,  and  in  181S  Mr.  Peiroe  was  car- 
ried with  it  to  Cincinnati.  He  immediately  engaged  in  mercantile  business  and  was 
prosp«'n)us.  In  iMIo  he  married  Elizabc^th  Neave.  Forming  a  partnership  with  his 
fath(>r-in-law,  Jen*miah  Neave,  he  was  an  energetic  merchant  until  1822 ;  then,  meet- 
ing reverses,  he  retired  from  active  business  and  studied  medicine.  He  obtained  a 
diploma,  and  was  about  to  begin  practice,  when,  in  1827,  he  was  induced  to  resume 
the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  a  merchant  He  was  an  influential  and  useful  citi- 
zen of  Cincinnati  till  1850,  when  he  died. 

Very  soon  afler  he  became  a  citizen  of  Cincinnati,  Mr.  Peirce  manif(*sted  decided 
literary  taste.  He  was  one  of  the  earliest  as  well  as  nioeit  active  promoters  of  art  and 
literature  in  the  young  city.  In  1821  he  cvrntributed  a  series  of  satirical  odes  to  the 
Wesffm  <^>y  and  Literary  Cadet^  which  were  entitle<l  **  Horace  in  CincinnatL"  They 
contained  provoking  caricatures,  and  many  witty  exposures  of  local  folly,  and  were  so 
much  sought  for  that,  the  following  year,  they  were  collected  and  published  in  a  small 
volume  by  George  W.  Harrison,  forming  tlie  first  b(N>k  of  wluit  might,  in  all  respects, 
be  termed  W<?stem  Poetry. 

The  following  stanzas,  fn)m  the  thirty-first  ode  (the  Ust  of  the  series),  expressing 
thanks  to  tlie  Ohio  Legislature,  fairly  represent  the  spirit  of  Horace : 

For  bftving  long  dincusm'd  a  Uw. 
Ill  which,  'twftM  Miid.  ha<l  cn^pt  u  flaw 
That  rt'DdcrM  it  not  worth  a  ntruw. 

And  ppf*nt  iv^nic  thuufmod  dolUrn : 
A  juiit  d««cif(ion  to  prmlucc— 
Whether  a  iaio«I(T  l>e  a  |ruoK>, 
Consiiitent  with  tht*  niUtt  io  uw 

'Monff  scion  tiflc  echulaiK 

(S6) 


THOMAS   PEIRCE.  37 

To  you  our  thanka  no  leea  we  owe, 

For  having  spent  a  week  or  so 

In  leam'd  harangues,  to  sink  below 

Their  present  state,  your  wages : 
Declared  such  act  was  naught  but  fair ; 
But  on  the  final  vote  took  care 
They  should  continue  as  they  were, 

Oh,  wise,  consistent  sages. 

gust,  1821,  the  proprietors  of  the  Cincinnati  Theater  offered  **a  silver  ticket 
'ear^s  freedom  of  the  Theater,"  for  the  best  poetical  address,  to  be  spoken  as 
le  at  the  opening  of  the  Theater,  which  was  expected  to  take  place  in  Octo- 
lid  not  occnr  till  November  nineteenth.  "  Horace  in  Cincinnati "  was  the  success- 
T.  The  following  are  the  closing  Imes  of  his  address.  We  doubt  whether 
ni  has  since  been  always  observed  : 

Friends  of  our  infant  stage  I  who  here  resort, 
To  whom  our  Drama  looks  for  its  support, 
Whose  lib'ral  aid  this  classic  dome  has  reared. 
Whose  constant  zeal  our  every  hope  has  cheered, 
On  whose  superior  judgment  and  applause 
Depends  the  final  triumph  of  our  cause  ; 
If  e'er  some  foolish  fashion  of  the  day 
From  nature's  path  should  lead  our  steps  astray  ; 
If  honor's  voice  we  ever  strive  to  hush. 
Or  o'er  the  maiden's  cheek  diffiiBe  a  blush  ; 
If  ever  poor  neglected  worth  we  scorn, 
Or  crouch  to  those  with  empty  honors  bom ; — 
Oh,  give  us  not  your  sanction  I  but  dismiss 
The  play  and  players  with  th'  indignant  hiss. 
— Thus  may  the  Stage  present  to  public  view 
A  school  for  moralsj  and  for  letten  too ; 
Where  native  genius  may  expand  its  powers. 
And  strew  your  paths  with  intellectual  flowers. 

eirce  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  metrical  composition  for  occasions  like  that 
rred  to.  He  wrote  an  "  Ode  on  Science  "  for  an  "  extra  night"  at  the  Western 
in  Cincinnati ;  and  when,  in  1822,  the  proprietors  of  the  '*New  Theater**  in 
phia  offered  a  silver  cup  for  the  best  poem,  to  be  delivered  at  the  opening  of 
ramatic  temple,"  he  was  a  competitor.  The  prize  was  awarded  to  Charles 
but  Mr.  Peirce's  ode  was  adjudged  "  second  best."  It  was  published  in  the 
ti  National  Republican,  April  eighteenth,  1823.  The  lines  on  **The  Drama," 
'  quoted,  are  from  it. 

J4  and  1825,  IVIr.  Peirce  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  lAtercary  Gazette^ 
1  and  edited  by  John  P.  Foote.  Besides  original  poems,  he  prepared  for  the 
leveral  successful  translations  from  the  French  of  Boileau,  and  from  the  Span- 
asquez.  In  1825  he  wrote  a  second  series  of  satirical  poems,  which  he  puh- 
the  National  RepuUican,  They  were  entitled  "  Billy  Moody,"  and  professed 
it  the  education  and  varied  experience  of  a  Yankee,  who  taught  school  in  the 
1  then  wandered  to  the  West  as  a  peddler  and  an  office-seeker.  These  poems 
)  published  in  a  volume,  but  are  not  of  sufficient  general  interest  to  be  quoted 


38 


THOMAS  PEIRCE. 


[ino-sn 


fVom  now.  Between  1825  and  1835  Mr.  Pcirce  but  seldom  wrote.  IIu  kst  pabliflhed 
poem,  **  Knowledge  is  Power,**  was  contributed  to  the  Cincinnati  ChnmicU  in  1829. 
Benjamin  Drake,  then  the  editor,  spoke  of  it  as  a  poem  of  much  spirit,  and  hoped  that 
**  one  who  wielded  his  pen  with  such  fluency,  would  oftener  contribute  to  the  gratifica- 
tion of  the  lovers  of  poetry."  Mr.  Peiree  was  not  only  disinclined  to  gratify  this 
hope,  but  in  his  later  life  was  unwilling  to  be  reminded  that  he  had  ever  ooiuted  the 
muses.  The  specimens  of  his  unacknowledged  newspaper  contributioos  which  are 
subjoined,  together  with  the  extracts  from  ^  The  Muse  of  ilei^peria,''  given  on  pre^-i- 
ous  pages,  fairly  represent  Mr.  Peurce's  poetic  abilities — unacknowledged  we  taj,  be- 
cause he  did  not  sign  hb  name  to  any  of  hb  poems,  and  never  so  far  acknowledged 
*^The  Muse  of  Uesperia"  as  to  give  the  Philomathic  Society  an  opportunity  lo  pre- 
sent him  the  ''fifty  dolkur  gold  medal"  which  it  had  won. 


THB  DANDY.* 

Behold  a  pale,  thin-visaged  wight. 
Some  five  feet,  more  or  less,  in  height ; 

Which,  as  it  frisks  and  dances. 
Presents  a  body  that,  at  most. 
Is  less  substantial  than  a  ghost. 

As  pictured  in  romances ! 

A  head  of  hair,  as  wild  and  big 
As  any  reverend  bishop's  wig ; 

And  on  the  top  inserted 
(Or  front,  or  side— m  nms  the  whim) 
A  something  with  an  inch  of  brim, 

And  crown  like  cone  inverted. 

Aroimd  its  neck  a  stiff  cravat ; 
Another  tightly  drawn  o'er  that. 

And  oyer  these,  a  dozen 
Enormous  ruffles  on  his  brt'ast; 
And  close  below  a  tiny  vest. 

For  gandy  colors  chosen. 

And  over  all,  a  trim  surtout 
Scanty  in  length,  and  tight  to  boot 
And  (what  is  now  no  wonder) 


*  ll<inM«  to  ClBrtoMtl.**    04*  VII. 


Td 


Bigg'd  out  with  capes  full  half  a  aoore; 
And  five  small  buttons  down  before, 
Just  half  an  inch  asunder. 

With  trowsers  welted  down  aadi  aide^ 
And  spreading  out  almost  as  wide 

As  petticoats  at  bottom; 
A  small  dumb  watch  some  cenfriea  old. 
With  twenty  keys  and  seals  of  gold~- 

No  matter  how  he  got  'em. 

To  dangle  at  a  lady's  side, 
WhcneVr  she  takes  a  walk  or  ride, 

A  thing  extremely  handy  >^> 
The^te  constitute — as  fibthions  mn 
III  eighteen  huiklrDd 

A  Cinciunati  Dandif, 


TO  A  LADY.* 

If  virgin  purity  of  mind, 

With  native  loveliness  combined. 

In  life's  unclouded  morning; 
If  in  her  fair  and  comely  face 
Shine  true  politeness,  ease  and  grace, 

Her  cliaracter  adorning; 


«llon»to 


r 


1D20-3O.] 


THOMAS  PEIRGE. 


89 


If  bless'd  with  kind  parental  care, 
To  guard  her  steps  from  vice's  snare ; 

And  if  religion  summon 
To  taste  her  joys  a  maid  like  this ; — 
You  musty  dear  fiiend,  possess  of  bliss 

A  portioa  more  than  common. 

For  she  who  thus  aspires  to  feel, 
And  cultivate  with  ardent  zeal. 

Those  virtuous  dispositions 
Bj  which  alone  the  fair  can  rise, 
Of  human  bliss  will  realize 

The  most  romantic  visions. 

Proceed,  dear  girl,  in  learning's  waj ; 
Whatever  coxcomb  fools  may  say, 

Tis  knowledge  that  ennobles  ; 
Still  laugh  at  beauty's  outward  show, 
Still  shun  the  proud  unletter'd  beau, 

And  scorn  pedantic  foibles. 

Unskiird  in  coquetry's  vain  wiles. 
Devoid  of  art,  and  siren  smiles. 

And  firee  from  envy's  leaven. 
Still  with  untiring  ardor  run 
The  virtuous  course  you  have  begun 

Beneath  the  smiles  of  heaven. 

Beauty,  at  best,  is  but  a  gleam 
Of  mem'ry,  from  a  frenzied  dream 

Or  legendary  story ; 
Tis  but  the  rainbow  in  the  skies. 
Which  steals  away  before  our  eyes. 

In  evanescent  glory. 

Tis  but  a  new-blown  fragile  flower, 
Blushing  beside  a  roseate  bower :  — 

If  with  rude  hand  you  sever 
Its  beauties  from  its  native  stem — 
Though  fair  and  brilliant  as  a  gem, 

It  fades  away  forever. 

And  if  (as  may  occur  ere  long) 
Around  you  num'rous  suitors  throng. 
Led  on  by  ardent  passion, 


With  complaisance  the  wise  regard, 
But  from  your  company  discard 
The  silly  fools  of  fashion. 

And  should  you  find  a  modest  youth. 
The  friend  of  piety  and  truth. 

In  precept  and  example. 
Proceed  by  mutual  vows  to  prove 
The  consummation  of  your  love 

At  Hymen's  sacred  temple. 

For  she  who  heeds  but  foUy's  voice, 
And  makes  her  matrimonial  choice 

From  outward  show  and  glitter, 
May  find,  with  sorrow  in  the  end. 
Her  late  warm,  kind,  connubial  friend, 

Will  all  life's  sweets  embitter. 

But  she  who,  scorning  wealth  and  birth, 
Aims  in  her  choice  alone  at  worth. 

From  mental  coffers  flowing, 
Illumed  will  pass  life's  somber  way. 
Fair  as  the  dawn  to  perfect  day. 

Still  bright  and  brighter  glowing. 


THE  DRAMA. 

In  ^  olden  time,'*  when  arts  and  taste  re- 
fined 

Lit  with  blight  beams  the  midnight  of  the 
mind, 

And  martial  Greece  subdued  her  num'rous 
foes, 

The  Drama's  sun  o'er  classic  Athens  rose. 

By  clouds  obscured,  at  first  it  scarcely 
spread 

Its  pale  cold  beams  o'er  each  high  moun- 
tain's head. 

Till  gaining  step  by  step  its  noonday  height. 

It  clothed  the  boundless  scene  with  brill- 
iant light 


40 


THOMAS   PEIRCE. 


[1820-311 


Then  learned  EHchyliu,  wann  with  (lotriot 

fire, 
Touehed  with  bold  hand  the  DrumaV  slum- 
bering lyre, 
Aven^red  inveterate  faalti«  with  Mitin*V  d;irt. 
Or  hiu jelled  a  thouisand  foibles  frum  the 

heart. 
Then  Hoft  Euripides,  skilled  to  t-ontrol 
The  kindest,  gentlest  feelings  of  tin*  soul, 
O'er  his  bright  pages  deep  encliantment 

threw, 
And  floods  of  tears  from  pity's  fountain 

drew. 
When  all  her  glory  gone,  in  evil  hour 
Greeee    l)owed    submissive    to    sui>crior 

power; 
The  wandering  Drama  found  a  friend  and 

home 
In  bounteous  Coisar  and  trium]>lmnt  Rome. 
As  moved  by  love  or  pity,  seom  or  nigt», 
Guilt,  pride  or  fi>lly,  lioscius  trod  the  stiige ; 
His  mimic  power  surrounding  thousand^ 

praised, 
And  e*en  great  Tully  lauded  as  he  gazed. 


And  stepp'd  between  his  oonscienee  and  his 
(;od; 

FettercMl  with  rules  of  faith  tlie  fi^^e-bom 
soul. 

And  liade  the  million  bow  to  their  control ; 

Or,  flushed  with  savage  pride,  beheld  ex- 
pire 

A  ho>t  of  mart}TS  on  the  funeral  pyre ; 

The  exiled  drama  quits  the  scene  of  blood« 

And,  following  Freedom  o*er  the  Atlantic 
flood, 

RearrMi  with  a  skill  and  taste  unknown  be> 
fore, 

Iler  fanes  and  altars  on  Columbia's  shore. 


KNOWLEDGE  IS  POWER. 

Knowlehok  is  power. — ^In  days  of  old 
An.*hinif*des  the  learned  and  bold, 
Who  rude  barlmrie  nations  taught 
The  lore  with  which  his  mind  was  fraught, 


When  the  long  reign  of  Gothic  midnight  Threw  to  one  |K>int  the  rays  of  light 


lU'flei'tcd  by  his  mirrors  bright. 
R4)m(*V  mighty  fli-et  in  flames  arose, 


|mss*d. 
Wit,  tJt'^te  and  science  blessed  tlie  world  at 

last ;  I  Firt-d  by  tlie  si'ienee  of  her  foes : 

To  Albion's  shores  the  scenic  Pluses  flew,   « A  crazy  vesst-l  scarcely  bore 
And  o*<'r  her  youthful  bards  their  mantles!  M:in*ellus  from  the  ho^tile  shore  ; 

thn'w.  While  smiling  jwace  resumed  again 

Tlien  Shiik'*|)earc  rose,  in  truth  and  vir-  oVt  SyrucuM*  her  wonted  reign. 

tue's  eaus<.», 
Rt'vivfNl    the    Drama,  and  reformed    iu 

laws, 


Knowl(*d;r^  is  [Kiwer. — From  age  to  age 
j  Tlit»  Uilts  of  h«*av<'n,  with  deafUy  rage. 


Portniyi^l  the  airy  form,  of  fancy's  dream..  ^j^^^tiMl  th.ir  nd  paths  from  cUmd  to  eload, 
And  spread  o'er  life's  rud#»  scenes  her  bright.  AlarmH  the  skies  witl 


ith  thunders  loud, 
OVt    earth's   va>t    suiihee    winged    their 

coursi'. 
And  mortals  trembUHl  at  their  force  ; 
Towns,  K'mplfs,  navies,  catch  the  fire, 


est  Ix^ams. 
Then   Garrick  moved,  the  Ros4*ius  of  the 

agp. 
Ami  leaniinf;  quit  the  fonim  for  the  stage. 

Then  SitM<ms  b:wlc  the  tears  of  pity  ^lart,' And  in  the  (pitnchhss  flames  expire. 
Ami   Keinble    thrilliMl  vwh  filH-r   of  the  Fnuiklin— wh«»-e  penetrating  eye 

^*'ftrt.  Coiiltl  Natiin'V  ilarkt»st  M?cn.»t«  spy ; 

When  on   the  rights  of  man  curs'd  ty-.  Whose  mind  omld  cH>nipass  all  her  laws, 

runts  tHMl,  Ami  fmm  the  eflfect  de«luce  the 


1820-30.] 


THOMAS  PEIRCE 


41 


CKer  ships  and  castles  leads  the  wires, 
And  shoots  on  high  the  forked  spires. 
The  thunder's  loud,  tremendous  crash, 
The  lightning's  vivid,  £Eital  flash. 
Now  pass  unfeared,  innoxious  found. 
And  spend  their  rage  beneath  the  ground. 

Knowledge  is  power. — Now  calmly  sleep 
The  billows  of  the  "vasty  deep;" 
CKer  the  still  fleets  no  friendly  gales 
Pass  lightly  by  to  swell  the  sails ; 
Fixed  to  one  spot,  they  silent  ride 
In  useless  splendor  on  the  tide ; 
While  many  a  schooner,  keel,  and  barge. 
Designed  to  trace  our  rivers  large. 
Can  scarcely  stem  the  rapid  course. 
With  all  their  sails  and  oars  in  force. 
From  dumb  oblivion's  dreary  night 
Great  Fulton  rushes  forth  to  light, 
Conducted  by  a  numerous  throng 
Of  arts  and  sciences  along ; 
And  prays  the  mighty  power  of  Steam 
To  bless  his  new  adventurous  scheme. 
Lo,  as  he  liils  his  wand  on  high, 
O'er  the  calm  seas  the  vessels  fly 
With  force,  n^pidity  and  ease. 
Unaided  by  the  gentlest  breeze  I 
Or  up  impetuous  rivers  glide 
In  spite  of  currents,  wind  and  tide !  — 
Whole  nations  bless  the  sage  sublime. 
Who  triumphs  over  space  and  time. 

Knowledge  is  power. — Since  time  began 
The  unrelenting  foe  of  man, 
The  monster,  Pest'lence,  stalked  abroad. 
By  all  the  powers  of  health  unawed. 
0*er  the  broad  plains  and  hills  sublime 
Of  Europe's  rich  and  varied  clime ; 
0*er  Asia's  wide-extended  land ; 
0*er  Afric's  desert  realms  of  sand ; 
O'er  tlie  vast  moimtains,  vales  and  plains 
Where  nature  in  her  splendor  reigns, 
E'er  since  Columbus  great  unfurled 
Tlie  glories  of  the  Western  world  ; 
Through  every  clime  and  every  zone 
By  man  inhabited  or  known. 


Far  as  the  boundless  ocean  roUs, 
Or  land  wide-stretches  to  the  poles  ; — 
He  marched  abroad  with  giant  stride. 
And  death  and  ruin  at  his  side : 
Whole  nations  fell  beneath  his  hand, 
And  desolation  ruled  the  land. 
Great  Jenner,  cool  and  undismayed, 
With  only  Science  for  his  aid. 
Grapples  the  fiend  in  deadly  fight. 
And  hurls  him  to  eternal  night : 
While  all  mankind,  with  loud  acclaim. 
Resound  their  benefactor's  name. 

Knowledge  is  power. — By  chemic  art. 
Behold  the  sage  Montgolfier  part 
From  water's  clear,  compounded  mass 
Pure  hydrogen's  etherial  gas ; 
Urged  by  whose  light,  elastic  spring 
The  huge  balloon,  on  buoyant  wing. 
Amid  the  thousands  gazing  round, 
Receives  the  sage,  and  leaves  the  ground. 
Observe  the  bold  Montgolfier  rise. 
League  above  league,  through  purer  skies ; 
Now  a  thick  mist  the  globe  enshrouds, 
Now  see,  it  soars  above  the  clouds. 
Now,  faint  and  fainter,  from  afar 
It  shines  a  small,  pale-glimmering  star ; 
And  now  it  vanishes  from  sight; 
While,  from  this  vast,  etherial  height. 
The  dauntless  sage,  the  clouds  between. 
Looks  down  with  rapture  on  the  scene ; 
Where  wide  around  the  landscape  spreads. 
And  towns  and  cities  lift  their  heads ; 
Where  to  the  clouds  huge  mountains  throw 
Their  heads  gigantic — white  with  snow; 
Where  round  the  globe  deep  oceans  roll. 
And  land  extends  to  either  pole. 
Tired  of  these  wondrous  scenes — ^behold 
The  sage  his  parachute  unfold ; 
And,  loosing  quick  the  cords  that  bind. 
His  airy  castle  cleaves  the  wind, — 
While  he,  with  safe-descending  speed. 
Now  from  his  heavenward  journey  freed. 
The  boundless  power  of  knowledge  shows. 
And  gains   the   earth  from    whence    he 
rose! 


42 


THOMAS   PEIRCR. 


[lK20-ai. 


Knowledge  is  power« — ^In  depths  pfx>- 
foundf 
Where  mkliiight  thivwa  her  gloom  around. 
With  thander'tt  voice,  thro*  mines  and  caves, 
The  demon  gas  reiude«  and  raves ; 
And  a^  the  workmen  crowd  below, 
Shiughters  his  thousands  at  a  blow : 
And  gloats  with  fiend«4ike  joy  his  ejes, 
As  hills  of  dead  around  him  rise. 
Lo !  Dav  J,  fearless  of  his  ire. 
Weaves  a  close  net  of  finest  wire, 
Descends  the  monster's  dreary  den. 
And,  stumbling  o*er  the  liones  of  men, 
Beholds  him  sunk,  in  grim  repose. 
And  his  wire-mantle  o*er  him  throws. 
He  rouses, — ^feels  his  iron  robe. 
And  to  its  center  shakes  the  globe ; 
To  burst  his  magic  fetters  tri<*s, 
And  in  the  desperate  effort  dies. 
Thus  fell  by  great  Alcides*  hainl. 
The  hydra-monster  of  the  land. 

Knowledge   is  power. — When   private 
jars 
Were  elumged  of  yore  to  public  wars, 
Till  millions,  prodigal  of  life, 
Rushed  to  the  field  and  joined  the  strife, 
Where  in  close  conflict,  hand  to  hand, 
With  javelin,  battle-ax,  and  bmn<l, 
^lore  copious  htreams  of  blood  w<fre  shed. 
And  raisiHl  were  larger  pih^s  of  dead, 
Immortal  Hacon  rose  to  view, 
And  natun'*s  thickest  vail  with<]rew. 
And  as  her  light  illumed  his  mind, 
Tlirpc  magic  substances  c«>mbincd. 
Touched  by  a  spark,  the  n«*«'  compound 
Kxplofhtl  with  tremendous  si    nd  ; 
And  myriads  hi*ard  with  dreiul     iqirise. 
The  mimic  thunder  of  the  skies. 


Knowh*4lge  is  power.^ — In  olden  time, 
Wlien  8U|>erstition,  leagued  with  crime. 


Ruled  the  wide  world,  ere  classic  light 
Had  pierced  the  gkxim  of  Gotliic  night ; 
While  tedious  years  of  toil  and  care 
Were  spent  one  transcript  to  prepare, 
Which  chance  might  to  oblivion  doom, 
A  drop  deface,  a  spark  ooommo ;-» 
I^aurentius  like  an  angel  moves 
From  Hfleriem*s  m^ademic  grovesi, 
And  with  his  wooden  types  oombincd. 
Gives  a  new  wonder  to  mankind. 
Hence  knowledge  flew  at  his  oouimaiid 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  land  to  land. 
And  science  his  broad  flag  unfurled, 
To  wave  it  o*er  a  brighter  work! ; 
Hence  unimfMured  to  us  have  come 
The  chissic  works  of  Greece  and  RomCi 
And  we  their  wit  and  learning  know, 
Though  penned  tlirce  thousand  yeam  ago; 
jVnd  hence  thes4;  lamps  a  path  will  U^ 
To  erudition's  mountain  height ; 
And  thence,  as  step  by  step  we  rise. 
To  perfect  knowledge  in  the  skiei. 


YOUTH  AND  OLD  AGE. 

Yocrm  is  the  time  when  man, 

With  industry  and  rari% 
The  st<in*-house  of  his  mind  should  scan, 
And  Uy  up  treasures  there 
()f  virtuous  tlioughts  and  uaeful  lore. 
Ere  life's  unclouded  mom  is  o*er. 

Old  age  is  that  bright  hour 
To  errin<r  mortals  given. 
To  drop  c*arth*s  riches,  joys  and  power, 
And  lay  up  wealth  in  heaven, 
For  their  support,  when  time  shall  be 
Merged  in  a  bless'd  eternity. 


A 

ind 

iiont 

ii'h  a 

riends 

influence 

',  and  was 

ihice.     Mr. 

/cr  Diimont, 

Mizoii  ot'Indi- 


44  JULIA   L.   DUMONT.  [1820-30. 

WU8  immediately  taken  esi)cciidly  under  her  maternal  care.  Slie  hod  in  her  ichool 
several  cripple  boys,  some  of  whom  were  poor  and  fri(*ndles!%,  and  it  seemed  to  me  no 
motlier  could  ha\'e  surpassed  her  endeavor  to  tit  them  for  u>efulncs.4.'*  We  claim  special 
honor  for  her  early  and  succe^ful  devotion  to  education  in  the  West 

Ilcr  nature  waA  ho  fmcly  strung  that  few  were  ca|»able  of  symiiathizing  with  her, 
either  in  her  sorrows  or  her  rejoicings.  She  dwelt  in  some  sense  alone,  and  yet  her 
heart  was  full  of  sympathy.  When  a  great  grief  was  pressing  upon  her  soul,  she 
was  surrounded  by  a  promiscuous  circle,  capable  of  interesting  and  rendering  happy 
those  with  whom  she  mingled.  Very  bitter  were  some  of  the  trials  through  which 
she  passeil,  and  very  severe  the  discipline  of  puffering  which  was  her  lot  She 
saw  three  sons  wither,  one  by  one,  away  to  the  cold  grave.  Soon  a  daughter  followed 
them.  There  was  a  beautiful  boy  whom  she  called  Edgar,  and  whom  she  loved 
intensely.  One  summer  morning  he  left  her  side  full  of  glee ;  in  half  an  hoar  he  was 
drowned ;  she  bore  him  to  her  house  in  her  arms.  The  blow  was  terrible.  Her 
soul  had  a  long-continued  struggle.  His  name  she  never  mentioned ;  yet  he  was 
ever  in  her  heart.  I  said  she  did  not  call  his  name,  but  a  letter  from  her  daughter 
says :  "Among  all  her  papers  was  never  found  any  allusion  to  his  name,  nor  to  this 
bereavement ;  but  in  a  private  drawer  of  hers  are  to  be  found  several  small  padcages 
marked  thus,  'Seed  of  the  tlowcrs  he  planted,'  *Thc  shoes  he  wore,*  'His  little  fish- 
hooks.* *• 

There  is  scarcely  to  be  found  a  more  touching  fact  It  tells  the  deep,  sad  grief  which 
preyed  upon  her  souL  During  all  this  struggle  she  did  not  **cliargc  God  foolishly." 
She  strove  to  feel  what  she  believed  to  be  true — that  God  was  ver}'  pitiful  and  of  ten* 
der  mercy. 

There  were  other  trials.  She  had  another  son,  who  Imd  grown  to  man's  estate- 
had  married — was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  had  high  hopes  of  eminence  in  his  pn^ 
fcssion.  He  was  sprightly  and  full  of  force.  W(;ll  did  I  know  him-— often  I  spoke 
with  him — united  him  to  his  bride  in  marria<{e,  and  stood  by  his  bedside  as  he  was 
jMissing  down  into  the  swellings  of  Jonhm.  In  the  pride  ij^  his  manhood  be  was 
smitten,  and  wasted  to  the  tomb.     Another  shrine  was  broken  I 

BIrs.  Dumont's  hciilth  gave  way — ^hor  constitution,  though  elastic,  was  delicate,  and 
she  Iwwed  at  length.  She  went  5^)uth — amon;;  the  omn«n^  groves  and  palmettos  she 
sought  to  n*gain  her  former  stn*ngth  and  activity.  It  whs  not  to  be  so.  She  was 
marked  for  death.  A  year,  or  nearly  so,  was  spiMit  Siuth,  and  then  she  returned  bony*, 
for  Vevay  was  still  the  home  of  the  living  and  the  n'stiiig-pLu*e  of  the  dead. 

Amifl  the  greetings,  the  ex|M'rien(*es,  the  questions  nske«l  and  luiswered,  her  chiMren 
disetivered  that  she  ha<l  come  back  to  them  with  a  di.ntressing  cough.  It  never  left 
her,  but  was  developed  into  consumption !  It  only  needs  the  old  history  to  tell  what  i 
n'Uiains,  so  far  a*  the  disease  was  coneeme<l — the  niO(*king  pmmise  of  restored  health—  | 
thi'H  the  change.  With  the  indomitable  industry  whi«"h  had  ever  marketl  her,  she  ^ 
would  not  vvxxMi  work,  but,  in  afldition  to  pn'iMiring  a  volume  of  sketches  for  the  I 
pn*ss,  also,  afttT  Iht  n'tum.  suptTintendcd  Iht  sch<M)l  through  several  terms.  *'She  | 
trusted  and  was  not  afraid.**     Tnist  ri]N*ne<l  into  joy,  and  she  wlM>se  whole  life  had 


1820-30.]  JULIA   L.   DUMONT.  45 

been  one  weary  battle-field,  at  last  triumphed !     I  cannot  forbear  transcribing  one  other 
passage  from  her  daughter's  letter  to  me,  though  it  was  not  written  for  publication : 

"  For  manj  years  she  suffered  with  a  nervous  restlessness,  which  prevented  her 
sleeping ;  but  the  blessed  promise,  '  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep,'  seemed  graven  on 
her  heart  Again  and  again  have  I  found  her  with  her  eyes  closed,  hands  clasped, 
and  voice  uttering,  as  in  thanksgiving  prayer,  ^So  he  giveth  his  beloved  sleep.'" 

Early  in  life   Mrs.  Dumont's    mental   powers  attracted  attention,  and  led  many 
to  presage  for  her  a  high  literary  position.     But  the  cares  of  her  household,  her 
feeble  health,  and  a  distrust  of  her  own  abilities,  prevented  her  from  attempting  more 
than  fragmentary  essays,  tales,  sketches,  and  poems.     While  her  productions  were 
sought  after  with  avidity  by  publishers  able  to  pay  for  them,  she  felt  so  much  desire 
to  build  up  and  sustain  the  local  press  and  home  literature,  that  she  more  usually 
would  send  her  best  songs  to  some  new  village  paper,  struggling  for  an  existence,  and 
with  the  communication,  some  words  of  cheer  to  the  editor,  to  give  him  heart  and 
hope.     She  was  a  fiiequent  contributor  to  the  Literary  Gazette,  published  at  Cincin- 
naU.     Several  of  the  best  poems  she  wrote  were  first  printed  in  the  Gazette,  among 
which  are  "Poverty,"   "The  Pauper  to  the  Rich  Man,"  and   "The  Orphan  Emi- 
grant"    In  the  years  1834,  '35  and  '36,  she  wrote  frequently  for  the  Cincinnati 
Mirror^  but  chiefly  in  prose.     She  was  awarded  two  prizes  by  the  publishers  of  the 
Mirror  for  stories  on  Western  themes.     One  of  those  stories,  "Ashton  Grey,"  with 
others,  contributed  to  die  Western  Literary  Journal,  and  the  Ladies*  Repository,  are 
collected  in  a  volume  entitled  "Life  Sketches."* 

While  examining  the  characteristics  of  Mrs.  Dumont's  style,  we  are  impressed  with 
its  purity.  She  never  wrote  a  line  calculated  to  lure  one  from  virtue,  to  gild  vice,  or 
bedeck  with  flowers  the  road  to  death.  There  is  virtue  in  all  that  lives  from  her  pen — 
virtue  the  child  of  heaven — ^the  true  guide  to  success  in  life,  and  true  title  to  fra- 
grant memory.  Her  teachings  addressed  to  the  young — ^for  to  them  and  for  them  she 
nuunly  wrote — ^inspire  heroic  virtue,  a  working  faith,  and  conquering  zeal.  She  had 
ever  a  word  of  hopefulness  for  the  desponding,  of  encouragement  for  the  toiling. 

Mrs.  Dumont  died  on  the  second  day  of  January,  1867 — mourned  not  only  by  a 
bereaved  femily  and  immediate  neighbors,  but  by  many  far  distant,  to  whom  kind 
instructions  had  closely  endeared  her.  It  was  understood,  in  1835,  that  IMrs.  Dumont 
had  collected  materials  for  a  Life  of  Tecumseh.  Whether  the  purpose  of  such  a 
work  was  executed  we  are  not  advised.  We  are  informed,  however,  that  her  friends 
contemplate  the  publication  of  her  poems  in  a  volume. 

Mr.  Dumont  is  yet  a  resident  of  Vevay — ^the  center  of  a  family  of  wide  influence 
in  Indiana.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Indiana  Legislature  in  1822-23,  and  was 
afterward  a  candidate  for  the  ofiice  of  Governor,  against  David  Wallace.  Mr. 
Dumont  has  a  worthy  reputation  m  Indiana  as  a  lawyer.  His  son,  Ebenezer  Dumont, 
who  distinguished  himself  as  a  Colonel  in  the  Mexican  war,  is  now  a  citizen  of  Indi- 
anapolis. 

*  Lib  Sketches,  from  Common  Paths.    Appletona,  New  York,  1866.    12mo.    pp.  286. 


-n 


4U 


JTLIA    L.    I)  r  MONT. 


[i«2o-ja 


POVEBTY. 

I  PARDON  the  lover,  tliat  raves  of  the  makl, 
Wbo?(o  graoe^  tlio*  few,  have  hU  hoMHn 

betraj'd, 
But  tlio  poet,  who  nngs  of  dame  povcrtyV 

oliannf. 
Deserves  to  be  chained  in  her  mercileM 

arms. 

Belkold  her  stem  features,  how  U%id  and 
pale; 

Her  breath  is  the  Upas,  that  withers  the 
vale; 

Iler  garments  hang  loose  round  her  skele- 
ton form, 

And  she  frowns  like  the  demon  that  rides 
on  the  storm. 

If  dropped  thro'  a  doud  from  the  realms  of 

tlie  blest, 
A  gem  of  benevolence  glows  in  the  breast ; 
Let  |K>vert  J  breathe  on  this  gem  of  the 

heart, 
Ahis !  it  no  longer  its  light  can  impart. 


Avaunt,  tlien,  thou  goblin :  awaj  horn  my 

path! 
Fm  weary  of  drinking  thj  vials  of  wnuh; 
Thy  mi:<ts  liave  extinguisL*d  the  li|^U  of 

my  MHil, 
And  my  Hpirit  revolts  from  thj  further 

control. 


THB  MOTHER  TO  HER  DYING  INFANT. 

Child  of  my  bosom,  how  deep  thj  decay  1 
Life !  thy  last  tint  is  now  fiMling  awaj ; 
Death  his  pale  seal  on  thy  cheek  baa  im- 

pre<is*d, — 
Babe  of  my  love !  thou  art  hast*ning  to  re^L 

Pain !  thou  shalt  riot  no  more  on  his  fenc. 
Grave !  thy  i*okl  pillow  is  rock*d  with  no 

storm ; 
SlumlM^ni  of  death,  ye  are  tranquil  and 

de<»p, 
Sweetly  and  long  shall  the  suffering  sleep. 


Tt^-i        A      I  •  1  u    *u^  4-1    ^r  ..»..»..«:. i.M  '^"'^  ^  aflr«Ttion,  pale,  cankered  and  low, 
nhen  touch d  by  the  talc  of  unvaniisiid  ,    .,  •  ^     .    ».      t 

..  <  Hlosrtoni  ot  ho[»e,  Khali  I  ^eep  tor  the  bbw ! 

A  hand  is  ^tended  the  sufferer  to  bless       [f  ^ '  \»>^;^^  *»"«^  «  "^^^  ^  '^ 
With  cold,  empty  fingen  that  puqxMJ  to  ^erry  I  thy  chenib.ms  wait  for  my  duld. 

blight, 
Lo!   iwverty  comes,  Uke  the  mildews  of  <^'0  then,  my  babe,  the  deep  conflict  is  past, 

jj^.|,l^  Calm  and  re^ign^d,  I  will  yieJd  to  the  bhi4 ; 

Go  whfn*  the  s|ioiler  shall  scatter  DO  blight^ 
If  science  her  treasure  attempts  to  display.  Angels  sliall  hymn  thee  to  rF«ionaoni( 
WlK*re  povf*rty  holdn  her  tyranni<'al  hwhv, 
Ilcr  subjects  are  torn  from  the  rapfruus 

refMist, 
To  laliur  condemned,  while  the  mind  is  to 

fast 


Tlio*  Genius  goes  forth  on  the  pinions  of 

liKht, 
With  halo9«  encirrlod,  and  brilliants  l>e<1iglit,  l^Kik  at  that  face !  'tis  distorted  and  wiM, 


Ah !  thy  deep  moanings  still  break  oo  my 

ear, 
Still  thy  pure  spirit  is  lingering  here; 
(Srief  I  thy  dark  surges  yet  proudly  shall 

roll/ 
Vi.tion.<  of  bliss !  ye  have  fled  from  my  souL 


If  |ioverty*s  vaficin  an>und  him  an>  cast. 
The  vale  of  obscuritv  hides  him  at  last 


Si-e  th«>se  wan  features  where  innoeence 
smiled ; 


J 


1820-30.] 


JULIA  L.   DUMONT. 


47 


Where  are  their  light  and  their  loveliness 

now? 
Heavy  and  cold  are  the  dews  on  his  brow. 

Hark!  how  convulsive  and  deep  is  his 
breathy 

See  those  clench'd  hands,  thej  are  strag- 
gling with  death ; 

When,  oh  my  God !  shall  the  agony  cease? 

When  shall  the  sufferer  slumber  in  peace  ? 

Say,  shall  I  weep  when  in  sleep  he  is  laid  ? 
No!  the  deep  waves  of  despair  shall  be 

stayed, 
Calmly  I'll  gaze  on  the  still  settled  face, 
Calmly  impress  the  last  icy  embrace. 

Loveless  and  cold  when  my  pathway  is 

left, 
Hope  of  its  blossoms  eternally  reft, 
Sommon'd  to  bliss,  my  last  cherub  shall 

rise, 
Pore  and  immortal,  a  child  of  the  skies. 


THE  PAUPER  TO  THE  RICH  MAN, 

Trs  the  rich  man  rolling  past, 

The  man  of  lordly  sway. 
And  the  chilling  glance  on  the  pauper  cast. 

Would  rebuke  me  from  his  way. 

But  alas !  my  brother,  spare 

That  look  of  cold  recoil, 
Nor  with  the  pride  of  thy  state,  compare 

The  garb  of  want  and  toiL 

And  stay  thine  alms,  for  I  seek 

These  meager  hands  to  fill, 
^0  part  of  aught  thy  robes  bespeak ; 

Yet  are  we  brothers  stilL 

Thongh  thy  scorn  our  path  divide. 
Though  thou  own'st  no  brother^s  heart, 


Yet  shall  not  envy's  poisonous  tide 
Our  souls  yet  farther  part 

Hast  thou  not  suffered  ?    Tean 

Have  o'er  thee  also  swept ; 
Thou  hast  joumey'd  in  a  vale  of  tears. 

Hast  thou  not  also  wept? 

Thou  art  strong,  yet  hath  not  pain 
E'er  bowed  thy  mighty  head  ? 

And  the  robe  of  wealth  been  found  all  vain 
A  healing  balm  to  shed  ? 

And  thy  mind's  rich  gifts  been  lost, 
As  thou  shrunk'st  with  icy  diill. 

Or  in  wildering  dreams  of  frenzy  toss'd  ? 
Then  are  we  brothers  stilL 

Hast  thou  still,  in  life's  fierce  race. 
Swept  on  with  strength  unworn, 

Nor  dim,  uncertain  aim  taken  place. 
Of  thy  strong  spirit's  acorn  ? 

Or  hath  strange  weariness. 

Mid  all  thy  proud  renown, 
Flung  on  thy  heart  with  palsying  press. 

Borne  its  high  pulses  down. 

Till  thou,  in  the  flush  of  life, 
Stood  faltering,  sick  and  chill, 

And  thy  soul  in  faintness  forgot  its  strife  ? 
Then  are  we  brothers  stilL 

Hast  thou  not  on  human  worth 

Too  deep  a  venture  laid. 
And  found,  more  cold  than  the  icy  north. 

The  chill  of  trust  betrayed  ? 

And  felt  how  like  a  spell, 

Earth's  warm  light  faded  out, 
As  from  the  heart  thou  hadst  loved  too  well, 

Thou  tum'dst  all  hearts  to  doubt  ? 

Hast  thou  known  and  felt  all  this, 

With  many  a  nameless  ill. 
That  drugged  thy  every  drop  of  bliss  ? 

Then  are  we  brothers  stilL 


lA 


JULIA   L.   DUMONT. 


[1620 


And  il«'ath !  tlic  hpoilcr  death, 

Wiio  mockd  even  love'0  etruiig  clafip, 

Iluth  he  Uime  naught  to  hid  tialLs  beneath. 
Won  t'ruin  thy  MHil'tf  fond  gra^p  ? 

( >r  liaiit  tluNi  bent  to  kisii 

The  lifH  hi.H  breath  liad  chilled? 
And  calle*!,  ui   dreain^t   of   **  remembered 

hii-s" 

(>n  ton***  forever  stilled? 

And  i^UkkI,  with  bowed  face,  hid 
Hy  the  grave  thy  dead  muMt  till. 

Ami  iK-ard  the  clod  on  the  cotlin-lid  ? 
Tiien  are  we  brothere  still. 

1.1  not  d<*ep  suffering 

V\Hm  thy  nature  healtnl? 
And  chilli  all  the  pA.-*  that  duitt  may  bring, 

Thv  niordU  bosom  shield? 

And  ]i:i«t4*n  we  not  down 

To  tin*  same  low,  luirrow  IxkI, 

WhiTf  the  mighty  doffs  his  victor-crown, 
And  th<*  tire<l  slave  rests  his  head  ? 

'I'll* '11  ]tii>A  on  in  thy  pride. 

Till  earth  sliall  claim  her  part ;  i 

Y«*t  11  hy  should  envy's  bitter  tide 

Fiiiw  o*i'r  a  huiiuui  heart? 

Karth*s  |N»ni[»s  anmnd  thiH!  fold 

Vi't  «'!ii*.i'r,  if  thou  will; 
Thn»'  thin  MjUjUid  fnime  the  winds  pierce 

Yrt  an*  we  brothen*  still. 


TO  TUK  M«M)N. 

('01 1»  plafH't,  f>f  th<*  rh.injieful  form! 

Dark  .ohadtm?*  niuiid  thi-r  ndl, 
Y<'t  '*iill  ihy  lH*:nii!<  <li'«])ol  the  storm, 

That  iiM-kA  till*  niudd*ning  miuL 


The  waves  of  pu>s]oii,  strong  and  do 
Like  summ^'r  !>4-as  are  hash*d  to  nke] 

Beneath  thv  calm  control: 
Like  sacTed  balm  which  heaven  impa 
Thy  ray$  descend  on  breaking  bearb 

The  sea-lioy  on  the  billowy  wa^te 

( )f  waters,  <Lirk  and  wild, 
Far  from  the  Inmie  which  love  embn 

When  brighter  virions  smiPd — 
While  Mift  thy  li«'am  on  ocean  sleeps 
Far  o'er  the  wave  his  spirit  sweeps. 

By  magic  power  l>eguiie«l: 
And  forms  yet  lovM,  a  spectral  band, 
Embrace  him  on  liLs  native  land. 

Etherial  Limp  I  whose  flame  is  fed 

From  an  eternal  source. 
Religion's  soft«'st  dews  are  shed. 

While  thou  roll'st  on  thv  course ; 
Till*  %'nil  of  mental  darkness  remls, 
Afxl  holv  li;:tit  fn>m  heaven  d(*sceud:) 

With  strong,  resistless  fbree : 
Faith  ]N lints  fK*yond  the  purple  skies, 
And,  thither,  hi»|>es  unearthly  rise. 

Queen  of  the  hu^h'd,  mysterious  boo 

When  fuirifs  hold  their  swav. 
Young  love,  exuhing,  hnik  thy  powe 

And  shun*^  the  gbre  of  day, 
LuH'd  hv  ihv  light,  from  scenes  of  mil 
The  festive  hall,  the  social  hearth, 

His  votarie-.  court  thy  ray : 
Pure  witness  of  the  vestal  sigh. 
When  voutlilul  lu*arts  throb  warm  1 
high. 

And  he  \vho<4^  h(»])es  and  joys  are  flee 

Bevond  ihi*«  vale  <»f  tears; 
Who  strays  among  his  kindred  dead. 

The  wreek  of  former  years; 
S<M>th*d  by  thy  M>t\  seraphic  light. 
His  ^pirit  wing<i  a  tninsient  flight 

To  everl:i>tiiijr  s|»hen»s: 
An«l  form«.  imw  mouldering  at  his  fe< 
In  Utauty  <'lotird.  his  vi>ion  greet. 


1820-30.] 


JULIA   L.   DUMONT. 


49 


Pale  taper  of  the  glimmering  ray. 

Lamp  of  the  magic  spell, 
Soon  as  thou  dimb'st  thy  azure  way, 

The  muses  leave  their  cell, 
And  bid  the  rushing  tide  of  song, 
In  vaiying  numbers,  roll  along, 

With  wild  tumultuous  swell : 
But  hush — ^their  band  may  now  retire, 
For  thou  hast  quench'd  thj  vestal  fire. 


THE  THUNDERSTORM. 

No  radiant  beam  has  cheered  the  joyless 
day, 
Nature  seems  robed  in  all  her  sad  attire 
Obscured  and  dim,  tliro'  mists  of  thickening 

The  sun  appears  a  gloomy  ball  of  fire. 

Bat  lo !  he  sinks  fast  in  the  western  heaven ; 
Thro'  murky  shades  the  night  bird  slow- 
ly flies ; 
WUte-gathering  clouds  in  swift  confusion 
driven. 
Portend  a  tempest  lowering  in  the  skies. 

Tlie  moon  in  darkness  vails  her  crescent 
form, 
Tbo'  late,  Ohio,  on  thy  breast  she  smiled ; 
Thy  turbid  wave  rolls  dark'  beneath  the 
storm, 
And  round  thy  arks  the  rocking  winds 
roar  wild. 

The  shivering  oak  alanns  the  listening  ear, 
And  scattered  fragments  cross  the  hunt- 
er's path; 
The  venge^  besom  sweeps  the  gay  par- 
terre. 
And  ripening  fields  are  marked  with  fear- 
ful scatfa. 

Redoubling  horror  all  the  concave  shrouds, 
Re-echoing  thunders  startle  and  affiright; 


The    lightnings  dance  among  the  sable 
clouds. 
And  stream  athwart  the  stormy-bosom'd 
night 

Dark  and  sublime,  amid  the  fitful  glare. 
Destruction  rides    triumphant  on    the 
storm. 
While   deep  and  fervent,  hai^I  the  voice 
of  prayer 
Is  heard  from  lips,  that  never  learned  its 
form! 

Mid  scenes  like  this  the  spirit  seems  to 
pause; 
In   wordless  dread,  on  nature's  awful 
verge, 
Jehovah  stands  reveal'd,  the  Eternal  Cause, 
That  wakes  the  storm  and  binds  the 
madd'ning  surge. 


THE  FUTURE  LIFK 

Ye  faded  threads  among  this  still  dark  hair. 
Noting  with  spectral  trace  time's  mock- 
ing speed; 
How  defUy  weave  ye,  with  your  pale  hues 
there, 
A  writing  for  the  conscious  soul  to  read. 

And  let  me  read:  what  say  those  paly 
lines, 
Gleaming  through  locks  with  woman's 
pride  once  bound  ? 
For  me  the  Yrreaths  life's  golden  summer 
twines, 
Brilliant  as  brief,  shall  never  more  be 
wound. 

The  rich  warm  prime,  when,  with  soft-col- 
ored hues, 
The  buds  of  hope,  not  here,  perhaps,  to 
bloom. 


50 


JULIA    L.   DIMONT. 


[1^0  30. 


Yet,  evon  through  tears,  like  violcU  bathed 
ill  dew«, 
Still  yield  to  life  a  beautj  and  perfume. 

The  hours  when  still,  though  blent  with 
many  a  thorn, 
Beneath  the  feet  blossom  and  verduro 
spring, 
To  me  are  fled ;  they  may  no  more  return. 
Nor  time  again  one  leaf  of  freshness 
bring. 

But  ever  shall  my  future  day  grow  wan, 
And  from  life's  shore  the  greenness  fade 
away. 
Till  the  dull  wave,  that  bears  me  darkling 
on, 
Reflect  no  image  but  of  pale  decay. 

Decay,  whose  gathering  mildews,  o*er  me 
spread, 
Shall  dim  each  senile  that  drinks  the 
summer  beams ; 
The  glorious  odors  life's  full  censers  shed. 
The  muMic-toncs  that  thrill  its  earlier 
dreams. 

Well,  let  me  meet  the  thought — it  hath  no 
power 
To  daunt  the  eoul  that  knows  its  heaven- 
ly birth ; 
Pass,  pass  away !  brief  splendors  of  lifeV 
hour. 
The  sights,  the  sounds,  the  gorgeous  hues 
of  earth. 

All   si<rhts,  all   sounds,  all   thoughts   and 
dream!«  of  time. 
Of  a  pure  joy  that  wake  the  passing 
thrill. 
Are  vet  but  tokens  of  that  "better"  clime, 
WluTi'  lite  no  more  conflicts  with  change 
or  chill. 

Tlie  flush,  thf»  o<lor  of  the  summer  rope, 
Th«»  breath  of  spring,  the  morning's  niln* 
of  light. 


The  whole  brood  beauty  o'er  the  earth  tluu 

gloW8, 

Are  of  the  land  that  knows  no  touch  of 


blight. 


The  melodies  that  fill  the  purple  skies, 
The  tones  of  love  tluit  thrill  life's 
domain. 
Are  all  but  notes  of  tlie  deep  harmonies 
Poured  round  the  Eternal,  in  triumphant 
strain. 

^Vnd  I,  while  through  this  fading  form  of 
dust. 
There  bums  the  deathless  spsri^  de* 
rived  from  Ilim, 
May  look  on  change  with  cahn,  though 
solemn  trust. 
Bearing  a  life  its  shadows  may  not  dim. 

Oh  bless'd  assurance  of  exulting  fiuth  I 
Humble,  and  yet  victorious  in  its  might* 

Through  the  dark  mysteries  of  decay  and 
death. 
Sustaining  on, — a  pillar  still  of  light 

The  life  immortal!  of  a  peace  intense, 

Holy,  un<*lianging,  save  to  brighter  day, 
How  faibt  the  mind  in  upward  flight  im- 
mense. 
When,  to  conceive  it,  human  thou^iti 
essay ! 

How  fade  the  glories  of  our  fairest  spheres. 
As  fiiith's  fix<'d  eye  pursues  that  hearen- 
wanl  flight ! 
The  hope<i  and  joys,  the  pain,  the  paasioo- 
ati*  tears. 
How  shadowy  all — ^phantasmaa  of  the 
night ! 

Wliat  I  am  now,  and  what  I  onoe  have 

E*eii  when  each  puL<e  with  health*!  fbfl 
bound  was  rife. 


I 


I 


1820-30.] 


JULIA   L.   DUMONT. 


61 


Melt  as  a  dream — a  strange  and  straggling 
scene, 
A  dim  and  fitfid  consciousness  of  life. 

Pass,  pass  awaj  I  things  of  a  fendness  vain, 
Fade  on,  frail  vestments  meant  but  for 
decay; 
I  wait  the  robes  corruption  may  not  stain, 
The  bloom,  the  freshness  of  immortal 
day. 


THE  ORPHAN  EinCRANT. 
LADY. 

Whitheb,  maiden,  art  thou  strolling^ 

Heedless  of  the  evening  blast? 
List,  and  hear  the  thunders  rolling, 

Look !  the  storm  is  gathering  &st. 
With  no  guardian  friend  beside  thee. 

Whither,  whither  wouldst  thou  roam  ? 
Lest  some  evil  should  betide  thee. 

Haste,  oh !  maiden,  to  thy  home. 

MAIDEN. 

Ask  not,  lady,  where  I  wander. 

Ask  not  why  my  footsteps  roam ; 
The'  the  skies  are  rent  asunder, 

Lady,  still  I  have  no  home. 
Crossing  o'er  the  wide  Atlantic, 

Seeking  freedom's  blissful  shore, — 
Oh!  reflection  makes  me  frantic — 

Lady,  I  can  tell  no  more. 

LADY. 

Oh,  be  cafan,  poor  hapless  maiden, 
Let  me  hear  thy  artless  tale, 

Why  with  grief  so  heavy  laden  ? 
What  has  made  thy  cheek  so  pale  ? 

MAIDEN. 

Freedom's  banner,  brightly  beaming. 
Lured  my  parents  o'er  the  wave. 

But  the  lights  of  death  were  gleaming. 
Even  then,  around  their  grave. 

After  braving  toils  and  dangers. 
Scorching  fevers  seized  their  brain ; 


Left  amid  a  land  of  straugers. 

Penury's  child,  I  weep  in  vain. 
Where  yon  willow  tree  is  bending, 

There  my  parents  mouldering  lie. 
Grief  their  Ellen's  heart  is  rending. 

Yet  they  answer  not  her  cry. 
Here  without  a  friend  to  cherish, 

Led  by  want's  cold' hand  I  roam — 
Rocked  on  sorrow's  wave  I  perish. 

Death !  thy  bed  shall  be  tnj  home. 

LADY. 

Maiden,  cease  my  heart  to  sever. 

Child  of  mourning,  dry  your  tears, 
I  will  be  your  friend  forever— 

I  will  guard  your  future  years ; 
I  have  never  known  that  gladness. 

Which  a  mother's  heart  must  own ; 
Crown'd  with  wealth,  but  vailed  in  sadness, 

I  have  sipped  its  sweets  alone. 
Shall  I  leave  thee,  then,  to  perish. 

While  thro'  flowery  paths  I  roam  ? 
No,  my  cares  thy  form  shall  cherish. 

And  my  dwelling  be  thy  home. 
Bless'd  in  fondly  watching  o'er  thee, 

Love  shall  every  grief  beguile ; 
May  the  shade  of  her  who  bore  thee. 

On  our  sacred  compact  smile. 


THE  TUMULUS.* 

Eternal  vestige  of  departed  years  I 

Mysterious  signet  of  a  race  gone  by, 
Unscath'd  while  Ruin  o'er  the  earth  careers. 
And  around  thy  base  the  wrecks  of  ages  lie. 
Reveal'st  thou  naught  to  the  inquiring  eye? 
What  fearful  changes  Time  has  given 
buih 
Since  first  thy  form,  where  now  the  oak 
towers  high, 
A  dark  gray  mass,  rose  from  the  verdant 
earth. 


*  Written  upon  yisiting  one  of  the  ntnpendouB  moundi 
that  greet  the  eye  of  the  trayeler  in  the  West. 


32 


JULIA   L.  DUMONT. 


[ISSO-^H 


Ah !  where  are  those  who  proudly  trod  thj 
brow, 
Ere  jet  thy  bright  green  coronals  waved 
there — 
The  strong,  the  brave,  their  race— where 
is  it  now  ? 
£urth*rt  living  nations  no  memorial  bear ! 
Where  then  the  sounds  of  life  rose  on  tlie 
air, 
A  grave-like  silence,  long  and  deep,  has 
pass'd, 
Save  when  the  wolf  howl'd  from  his  rocky 
lair. 
Or  owlet-screams  rose  on  the  fitful  blast. 

Bcar^st  thou  no  trace  within   thy  sullen 
brea^ft. 
Thou  seal'd-up  relic  of  the  mouldering 
df.'ud  ? 
Is  there  no  record  on  thy  form  impress'd 
Of  those  who  rear*d  thee  from  thy  valley 
1)ed? 
Did  pule  Decay,  with  slow  though  lingering 
tread, 
Consign  their  race  to  nature's  common 
tomb? 
Or  sweeping  Plague,  with  blasting  wing 
outi^pread. 
Their  brightness  quench  in  everlasting 
gloom? 

And  tliou,  tliat  mock'st  Destruction's  wrath- 
ful storm. 
While  living  worids  beneath  its  Wast  arc 
cnish'd, 
Say  for  what  end  the  dead  upheav'd  thy 
form. 
Or  consecrated  thus  thy  breatlileas  dust 
i  )id  calm  Devotion  here,  with  holy  trust, 

Erect  her  temple  to  the  living  God  ? 
<)r  lordly  Pride,  with  weak  ambition  flush'd. 


A  mighty  tomb,  where  nations,  laid  to 
III  gliastly  sleep,  await  the   tnmpet'i 
sound. 
Wlien  Earth's  dim  records  are  at  length 
unbound. 
And  in  her  last  foneraal  li|^  reTvaTd, 
While  riring  bones  burst  from  their  prison 
ground. 
Shall  then  thy  heaving  biow  ila  nji- 
teries  yield? 

Vainly  I  ask — but  o'er  the  musing  soul 
A  noiseless  voice  ccmies  tbom  thy  doii 
to  chide : 
^Man  may  exult  in  glory's  gUttmiig  rolL 
And  o'er  the  earth,  life,  for  a  while  pK^ 
side; 
But  learn  to  know  the  wreck  of  hnmi 
pri<ie ! 
Her  fairest  names  time  may  aft  knglh 
efface; 
Dark  o'er  her  cities  flow  ObliTioD's  tide, 
And  Death  abide  where  Ufo  and  joy 
have  place." 


THE  nOME-BOUND  GREEICS.* 

Days,  weeks  and  months  wore  heavy 
And  still  the  (iredon  bands 

Tlieir  slow  but  glorious  pathway 
ThnMigh  vast  barbarian  lands. 


•  On  th^  flfth  dftj  ihwj  fm^  to  lb* 
tmmt  of  it  WM  Thccbe*.    Wbtn  Um  ai 
front  had  nmantod  th«  helirtit.  and  loohad 
MB,  •  fTMt  »koat  procv^^kNi  from  thni ;  aaS 
•Dd  (he  rmr-iniiird.  on  fwring  It,  Uioiixht  UmI  «■»  vv 


«>nnnliv  w«Tr  mnwilllnc  tb^  frnot,  fbr  la  Uw 

Heap  up  thy  dark  and  monumental  sod  ? '  p^  frim  thp  romtt}  tiut  11117  had  bant 

I  thmi.  And  the  rmr-gnard,  by  y  If  lug  aa  aa 

.  kllleil  fHuf.  an  1  Ukvn  othrni  pri«norr«.  and 

•hciut  Iwraty  «hleldii  amdc  ci  nw  os<blilM 

ou.    But  an  the  BoiM  »tUl  tociaawd,  aad 


Kh-  hid'st   thou   tlioso,  in    thy  sopulrlintl 
breast. 

Who  erst  were  scattered  o'er  the  voles 
around? 


and  M  thoup  who  raaM  ap  from  tlaia  to  tiaw  k«f4 ; 
•C  fbll  »pMd  to  join  tboM  who 
the  eriai  bMoaUag  kwdar  aa  fba  1 


1820-30.] 


JULIA   L.   DUMONT. 


53 


Their  glorious  path,  for  not  in  fear 
Tamed  thej  from  the  foeman's  plains ; 

And  still  they  met  his  hovering  spear, 
With  a  mdght  that  mocked  at  chains. 

But  lingering  want  and  toil  have  power 
To  tame  the  strong  man's  soul, 

And  a  surer  work  than  the  conflict's  hour 
Hath  safiTering's  slow  control. 

Those  men  who  thrilled  at  the  trumpet's 
hlast, 

The  fearless  and  the  true, 
Grew  warm  and  haggard  as  thej  passed 

The  desert's  perils  through. 

O'er  vast  and  trackless  mountain  snows, 

Mid  precipices  wound, 
Oo  the  river's  bed  was  the  path  of  those 

For  home  and  freedom  bound. 

Yet  on,  still  on,  thej  sternly  pressed ; 

How  might  he  sink  to  die, 
Who  must  give  his  dust  to  earth's  dark 
breast, 

Beneath  a  Persian  sky  ? 

But  while  the  still  and  gathered  soul 
The  purpose  strong  sustained, 

The  eye  grew  tame  that  had  flashed  control, 
And  the  hauG;hty  strength  was  drained ; 

And  the  war-like  cheer  was  heard  no  more, 

Through  all  the  long  array, 
Though  many  a  province  trodden  o'er 

In  lengthening  distance  lay. 


ooi,  it  Kfpmnd  to  Xenophon  that  it  must  be  something 
of  iwy  gxwk*  moKnent.  Mounting  hii  horae,  thereftne, 
ud  tBidbDg  with  liim  Lycioj  and  the  oaralry,  he  hastened 
teimrd  to  |^  aid,  when  presently  they  heaid  ttie  soldiers 
ilmttlngf  '*  The  tsa,  the  sea!''  and  cheering  on  one  anoth- 
er. Hmj  than  all  began  to  mn,  the  rear-gi»rd  as  well  ss 
the  rest,  and  the  baggage-eattle  and  horses  were  pnt  to 
tbdr  speed ;  and  when  they  had  all  arriyed  at  the  top,  the 
Bca  embraced  one  another,  and  their  generals  and  oap- 
tafaas,  with  tears  in  their  eyes.  Suddenly,  whoever  it  was 
ttut  suggested  it,  the  soldiers  brought  stones,  and  raised 
s  large  mound,  on  which  they  laid  a  number  of  new  ox- 
Udes,  staves,  and  shields  taken  from  the  enemy.  Xxiro- 
raoa^s  AjfAiASXS.    SoAji's  Oaisieal  Ubntr^^  W»  187-8. 


Their  step  had  lost  the  warrior's  pride, 
Yet  on  they  moved — still  on ; 

And  their  way  now  threads  a  mountain's 
side. 
Whose  steeps  the  skies  had  won. 

Slowly,  with  weak  and  weaiy  limbs, 
They  reach  that  mountain  brow. 

And  their  glance  is  turned,  though  with 
sadness  dim. 
To  the  distant  vales  below. 

Fair  gleamed  those  vales  of  smiling  peace, 
Through  summer's  shining  haze. 

Outstretching  far ;  but  was  it  these 
That  fixed  their  straining  gaze  ? 

The  hollow  cheek  grows  strangely  flushed ! 

The  sunken  eye  has  light  I 
With  some  strong  thought  their  souls  seem- 
ed hushed — 

Does  mirage  mock  their  sight? 

Beyond  those  valleys  still  away, 

A  line  of  glittering  sheen 
Told  where  the  blue  ^gean  lay. 

With  its  isles  of  living  green. 

<<The  seal   the  seal"  the  stormy  sound 
broke — 
Their  souls  shook  off  the  doubt ; 

And  the  startled  rocks  of  the  mountain 
woke 

With  the  loud  and  thrilling  shout 

There,  there,  beneath  that  same  fair  sky. 
Did  the  fires  of  their  altars  bum ; 

And  the  homes  where  love  with  &ding  eye 
Kept  watch  for  their  return. 

All  tender  thoughts  ^and  feelings  high, 

All  memories  of  the  free. 
Found  utterance  in  that  long,  wild  cry, 

^The  sea!  the  sea!  the  sea!" 

As  of  meeting  waves,  the  uplifted  sound 
Deepened  in  gathering  might ; 

From  rank  to  rank  the  shout  profound 
Swelled  o'er  the  mountain  height. 


54 


JULIA  L.   DUMONT. 


[iioa-M. 


One  oolj  Bound — ^^The  9oa!  the  seal" 

FiHckI  all  the  echoing  sky ; 
For  ten  thousand  voices,  high  and  free, 

Blend  in  the  pealing  cry. 

If  such  were  the  mighty  burst 
To  an  earthly  home  but  given, 

How  shall  the  Christian  hosts  greet  first 
The  glorious  gates  of  heaven  ? 


MY  DAUGHTER  NURSE.* 

I  HEAR  her  still — that  buoyant  tread, 
How  soil  it  falls  upon  ray  heart ; 

Tve  cocmted,  since  she  lefl  my  bed, 
£ach  pulse  that  told  of  time  a  part 

Yet  in  a  dreamy  calm  I've  Iain, 

Scarce  broke  by  fitful  pain's  strong  thrill. 

As  one  who  listening  waits  some  strain 
Wont  every  troubled  thought  to  stilL 

And  o'er  me  yet  in  visions  sweet. 
The  image  of  my  precious  cliild, 

Plying  e'en  now  with  busy  feet. 

Some  tender  task — for  me  has  smiled. 

Oh !  youth  and  health :  rich  gifts  and  high, 
Are    tliose  wherewith  your  hours  are 
crown'd  ; 

The  balm,  the  breath  of  earth  and  sky — 
Tlie  gladsome  sense  of  sight  and  sound. 

The  conscious  rush  of  life's  full  tide, 
The  dreams  of  ho|>e  in  fairy  bowers: 

Action  and  strength,  th«*ir  glre  and  pride, 
Are  portions  of  your  laughing  hours. 

*  TIm  bMt  Udm  flrcMi  Um  pan  oC  Mxt.  I>iiiiMmC 


But,  Still  to  dim  and  wasting  life, 
Thou  bringest  dearer  gifts  than  these : 

Gifts,  that  amid  pale,  sufiering  strifey 
Love,  filial  love,  beside  me 


Sweet  draughts  fresh-drawn  finom  lore's  I 
deep  spring, 

Still  lull  my  many  hours  of  pain,  I 

And  not  all  summer  joys  might  briog 

A  draught  so  pure  fix>m  earthly  stain. 


Why  is  it  that  thus  faint  and  prone 
I  may  not  raise  my  languid  head 

A  daughter's  arms  around  me  thrown 
Yet  lift  me  from  my  weary  bed. 

And  what  have  flowers  or  skies  the  whib 
To  waken  in  a  mother's  breast, 

Soft  gladness  like  the  beaming  smile 
With  wliicli  she  lays  me  huk  to  rert? 

Those  smiles,  when  all  things  roond  wm 
melt 

In  slumberous  mist,  my  spirit  fill : 
As  light  u|)on  closed  eyelids  felt 

Beneath  tlicir  curtaining  shadow  stiD. 

And  still  in  happy  dreams  I  hear. 
While  an^i'l  forms  seem  o'er  me  ben^ 

ller  tones  of  evi»r-tender  cheer. 
With  their  high  whimperings  softly  blent 


But  hush !  that  is  her  own  light 
It  is  h(T  hand  u|K>n  my  brow ; 

And  Icanin;:  silent  o'er  my  bed, 
Her  eyes  in  mine  are  smiling  now. 


My  child,  my  child,  you  bring  me 
Spring's  fragrant  gift  to  deck  my 

But  through  the  dark,  drear,  wintry 
Love — love  alone  has  poured 


MICAH  P.  FLINT. 


MiCAH  P.  Flint,  son  of  Timothy  Flint,  who  rendered  eminent  service  in  the  cul- 
tivation and  encouragement  of  literature  in  the  Mississippi  vallej,  was  bom  in  Lu- 
/enb^,  Massachusetts,  about  the  year  1807.     While  Micah  was  jet  a  boj,  his 
father  selected  the  west  as  a  field  for  missionary  labor,  and  the  young  poet  received 
his  education,  with  his  father  for  tutor,  at  St.  Louis,  New  Madrid,  New  Orleans,  and 
Alexandria,  Mississippi,  to  which  places  Rev.  Mr.  Flint's  engagements  as  a  missionary 
successively  called  him.     When  failing  health  finally  required  his  father  to  suspend 
his  labors  as  a  minister,  Micah  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  Alexandria, 
but  was  not  permitted  to  become  known  as  a  lawyer.     His  first  published  poem  was 
on  a  mound  that  stood  near  a  &rm-house  in  Cahokia  prairie,  Illinois,  to  which  for  a 
few  months,  when  his  health  required  a  respite  from  severe  labors,  his  father  took  the 
family.     It  was  written  in  1825,  and  was  printed  in  Timothy  Flint's  "  Ten  Years  in 
the  Mississippi  Valley."     In  the  same  work  are  several  other  poems  by  Micah,  which 
have  merit  enough  to  justify  the  evident  pride  his  father  took  in  them.     In  1826, 
"  The  Hunter,  and  other  Poems,"  a  thin  duodecimo  volume,  was  published  in  Boston. 
"The  Hunter"  is  a  narrative  of  the  adventures  of  a  backwoodsman,  who,  on  account 
of  Indian  outrages,  had  become  a  Hermit.    It  is  not  vigorously  executed,  but  contains 
a  few  pictures  which  may  now  be  deemed  interesting.     In  a  dedication  to  Josiah  S. 
Johnston,  United  States  Senator  from  Louisiana,  the  author  said  of  it : 

Neither  leisure  nor  the  shade  and  the  books  of  academic  establishments,  nor  the  excitement  of 
literary  societies,  had  any  share  in  eliciting  it  It  was  produced  in  the  intervals  of  the  severest 
studies,  and  where  swamps,  alligators,  miasm,  maskctoes,  and  the  growing  of  cotton,  might  seem 
to  preclude  the  slightest  effort  of  the  muse  ;  and  where  the  ordinary  motive  to  action  is  with  one 
band  to  fence  with  death  and  with  the  other  to  grasp  at  the  rapid  accumulation  of  wealth. 

In  a  poem  written  two  years  later,  the  following  stanzas  occur : 

I  was  permitted,  in  my  yoathftil  folly. 

To  write,  and  send  a  book  forth,  once  mjsclf ; 
And  now  it  makes  me  feel  right  melancholy. 

When  e'er  by  chance  I  see  it  on  a  shelf: 
Not  that  I  think  the  book  was  common  trash, 

Bnt,  that  it  cost  some  hundred  dollars  cash. 

In  1827,  Timothy  Flint  started,  at  Gncinnati,  The  Western  Review^  a  monthly 
magazine  of  much  value,  which  was  continued  three  years.  Micah  was  a  frequent 
contributor.    In  an  article  written  at  the  close  of  the  first  volume,  his  father  said : 

The  poetry,  except  two  articles,  has  been  altogether  original,  and  of  domestic  fabric.  That  the 
public  begin  rightly  to  estimate  the  powers  of  the  chief  contributor  in  this  department,  we  have 
the  most  grateful  and  consoling  testimonials.  Every  one  remarks,  and  most  truly,  that  editors 
OQgfat  to  have  good  9Ud  wire  instead  of  nerves.    But  we  do  not  see  the  cruel  necessity  that  an 

(66) 


66 


IIICAU    P.    FLINT. 


[ISM-m 


editor  ahfiald  not  have  a  hfart  The  *'Camp  Meeting/'  we  are  told,  hait  foand  Ita  wmj  Into  the 
moat  extenrirelj  circulated  jntimal  in  the  United  States,  a  relif^ioua  paper  edited  with  a  great  deal 
of  talent,  *  *  *— the  Mtihodid  Magazme,  of  New  York.  Wliatever  be  the  general  dearth  of  poetieil 
feeling,  and  however  capricious  the  standard  of  poetical  exoelleooe,  U  cannot  but  be  that  wamt  kin- 
dred eye  will  rest  upon  Uie  poetry  in  this  volume,  and  that  a  congenial  string  will  be  harped  In  aoot 
heart  In  the  structure  of  poetry,  the  public  setm*  to  demand  nothing  more  than  pfeCty  woidt 
put  into  ingenions  rhythm,  with  a  due  regard  to  euphony.  In  conformity  to  that  taste,  we  have 
inserted  some  poetry  which  we  considered  made  up  rather  with  reference  to  words  than  pIctORt 
and  thoughts.  But  we  have  flattered  ourselves  that  the  greater  amount  has  had  aoBirthlng  of  the 
ancient  simplicity  and  foiee  to  reconunend  it  to  those  who  had  a  taste  for  that,  and  has  had  an  aia 
to  call  the  mind  **  from  soond  to  things,  from  lancy  to  the  heart''  We  have  an  hnmble  hope  that  if 
the  author  of  these  verses  survives  the  chanoes  of  the  distant  and  deadly  climate  In  which  hb  lot 
is  cast,  and  is  not  In  the  hackneying  cares  of  life,  deprived  of  the  visitings  of  the  muse,  the  ttea 
will  come  when  no  man  that  ha«  any  living  and  permanent  name  as  a  writer  and  a  poet*  will  ht 
forward  to  proclaim  that  he  did  not  discover  the  powers  of  the  writer ;  or,  after  InveMigatiM^ 
viewed  them  with  disapprobation. 

Thot  hope  of  a  fond  &ther,  so  coofidently  expressed,  is  not  without  fa1flllniftnt»  but 
the  poet  did  not  sarvive  the  chances  of  the  deadly  climate  in  which  he  bad  prepand 
himself  for  activity  in  a  new  sphere.    lie  died  in  the  year  1830. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "  THE  HUNTER." 

THE  MOUKTAIK  BTOItM. 

The  storm  bad  passed,  but  not  in  wrath. 
For  ruin  liad  not  marked  its  path. 
O'er  that  sweet  vale,  where  now  was  seen 
A  bluer  sky,  and  brighter  green. 
There  was  a  mikler  azure  spread 
Around  the  di^ant  mountain's  head ; 
And  every  hue  of  that  fair  bow, 
Whose  l)eauteous  arch  had  rwen  there, 
Now  sunk  U^neatb  a  brighter  glow, 
And  melted  into  ambient  air. 
TIk*  trmpeitt,  which  had  just  gone  by, 
Still  hung  along  the  ea>item  sky. 
And  thn»nt<*ne<i,  as  it  n>lU»d  nwav. 
The  birds  from  every  dripping  spray, 
Were  pouring  forth  their  joyous  mirth. 
The  torrent,  with  its  waters  brown. 
From  roc*k  to  rock  came  rushing  down ; 
Wliilo,  from  among  the  smoking  hills, 
Th«*  voices  of  a  thousand  rills* 
Were  heanl,  exulting  at  it*  birth. 
A  breeze  came  whis|M*riiig  thnmghthe  wood. 
And,  from  its  thousand  tn*sses,  shook 


The  big  round  drops,  that  trembHag  itoodi 
Like  pearls,  in  every  leafy  dooL 

THE  SUOAE  OAMP. 

It  was  a  valley  down  whose  slope 
A  streamlet  poured  its  full  spring  tide^ 
With  gentle  swells  on  either  side. 
Slow  rising  to  their  distant  cope ; 
By  Nature  planted  with  that  tree. 
Whose  generous  veins,  when  pierced  ibroMi 
Pour   forth  thrir  rich,  nectareous  juioe. 
Like  Patriot  life-blood,  rich,  though  free. 
Its  new  sprung,  n*d,  sharp^inted  leaves, 
Almost  the  first,  tliat  Flora  weaveSi 
Alreaily  twinkling  in  the  blast, 
Proclaimed  ^the  sea^KKi**  almost  past; 
When  on  that  eve,  that  vale  along, 
Tlie  joyous  shout,  the  merry  song. 
The  huigh  of  age,  and  youthful  glec^ 
Rung  out  the  forest  jubilee. 

A  hundred  fm-s  were  blazing  bright ; 
And  by  th«*ir  wild,  yet  cheerful  ligbt, 
The  magic  scene  was  all  displayed. 
A  table  stretched  from  shade  to  shade, 


1820-SO.] 


MICAH    P.    FLINT. 


67 


Fresh  smoking  with  its  rude  repast, 
And  grouped  in  converse,  here  and  there, 
Were  seen  the  men,  whose  hoary  hair 
Told  that  the  fire  of  jouth  had  past. 
There,  too,  in  neatest  garh  arrayed, 
Were  many  a  happy  youth  and  maid. 
Some  sat  retired,  to  say  and  hear 
Things  only  meant  for  love*s  own  ear ; 
While  others  turned  with  conscious  glance 
To  j<Hn  the  merry-footed  dance. 
There,  too,  around  the  blazing  fires. 
O'er  which  the  bubbling  caldrons  boiled, 
The  slave,  alternate,  danced  and  toiled, 
Now  sung  the  rude  song  of  his  sires ; 
Though  on  his  ear  its  wild  sounds  rung. 
Like  accents  from  a  foreign  tongue, 
Now  with  his  little  ladle  dipped 
The  liquid  sweet,  and  slowly  sipped 
As  though  he  lingered  on  the  taste. 
And  DOW  with  skill  and  nicest  care, 
Drew  off  the  thick  and  grainy  paste. 
To  form  its  crystals  in  the  air. 
All  hearts  were  glad ;  all  faces  gay, 
There  was  no  strife,  no  rude  alloy ; 
Such  as  in  this  degenerate  day 
Will  rise  to  mar  the  conmion  joy. 
To  fanc^s  eye  it  might  have  seemed 
As  though  the  golden  days  of  yore 
Had  circled  back  to  earth  once  more ; 
And  brought  again  that  guileless  mirth 
Which  bards  have  sung  and  sages  dreamed 
In  bright  reversion  yet  i^r  earth. 


MOONLIGHT  IN  THB  FORBST. 

The  moon  shone  bright,  and  her  silyery 

light 
Through  the  forest  aisles  was  glancing, 
And  with  mimic  beam  on  the  rippling 

stream 
A  thousand  stars  were  dancing. 
No  noise  was  heard  save  the  night's  lone 

bird. 
From  his  dark  and  dreary  dwelling ; 
Or  the  distant  crash  of  some  aged  ash. 
Which  the  ax  of  time  was  felling. 


THE  MOUNDS  OF  OAHOKIA. 

The  sun's  last  rays  were  fading  firom  the 

west. 
The  deepening  shades  stole  slowly  o'er  the 

plain. 
The  evening  breeze  had  lulled  itself  to  rest; 
And  all  was  silent,  save  the  mournful  strain 
With  which  the  widowed  turtle  wooed  in 

vain 
Her  absent  lover  to  her  lonely  nest. 

Now,  one  by  one,  emerging  to  the  sight. 
The  brighter  stars  assumed  theur  seats  on 

high. 
The  moon's  pale  crescent  glowed  serenely 

bright. 
As  the  last  twilight  fied  along  the  sky. 
And  all  her  train  in  cloudless  majesty 
Were  glittering  on  the  dark,  blue  vault  of 

night 

I  lingered,  by  some  soft  enchantment  bound, 
And  gazed,  enraptured,  on  the  lovely  scene. 
From  the  dark  summit  of  an  Indian  mound 
I  saw  the  plain,  outsprecui  in  so^ned  green. 
Its  fringe  of  hoary  cliffs,  by  moonlight  sheen, 
And  the  dark  line  of  forest,  sweeping  round* 

I  saw  the  lesser  mounds  which  round  me 

rose. 
Each  was  a  giant  mass  of  slumbering  clay. 
There  slept  the  warriors,  women,  friends 

and  foes. 
There,  side  by  side,  the  rival  chieftains  lay ; 
And  mighty  tribes,  swept  from  the  &ce  of 

day. 
Forgot  their  wars,  and  found  a  long  repose. 

Ye  mouldering  relics  of  departed  years ! 
Your  names  have  perished;    not  a  trace 

remains, 
Save,  where  the  grass-grown  mound  its 

summit  rears 
From  the  green  bosom  of  your  native  plains. 


68 


MICAH   P.   FLINT. 


[1820-Sa 


Siiy !  do  your  spiriu  wear  oblivion'B  chains? 
Did  death  forever  quench  jour  hopes  and 
fears? 

Or  live  thej,  shrined  in  some  congenial 

form? 
What  if  the  swan,  who  leaves  her  summer 

Among  the  northern  lakes,  and  mounts  the 

8torm, 
To  wing  her  rapid  flight  to  climes  more  blest. 
Should  hover  o'er  the  very  sjwt  where  rest 
The  crumbling  bones  once  with  her  spirit 

warm. 

What,  if  the  song,  so  soft,  so  sweet,  so  dear. 
Whose  music  fell  so  gently  from  on  high. 
In  tones  neriul,  thrilling  my  rupt  ear ; 
Though  not  a  s^{>eck  was  on  the  cloudless 

sky, 
Were  tlieir  own  soft  funereal  melody, 
While  lingering  o'er  the  scones  tliat  once 

were  dear  ? 

Or  did  those  fairy  hopes  of  future  bliss. 
Which  simple  Nature  to  your  bosoms  gave. 
Find  other  worlds  with  fairer  skies  than 

this, 
Beyond  the  gloomy  portals  of  the  grave. 
In  whose  bright  bowers  the  virtuous  and 

tlie  bnive 
Rest  from  their  toib,  and  all  tlieu:  cares 

dismiss? 

Where  the  great  hunter  still  pursues  the 

cliase. 
And  o'er  the  sunny  mountains  trucks  the 

di*er. 
Or  fiiMl>  agiiin  each  long-extinguished  racis 
And  sees  once  more  the  mighty  mammoth 

ri'ar 
The  giant  form  which  lies  emlM*dde<l  h^re. 
Of  othtT  years  the  bole  remaining  tnice. 

Or  it  mav  Ik»  that  still  ve  linger  near 
The  >I<>f)iiiig  ashr^.oiicf  yuurdfMin'>t  pride; 
And,  <**Hild  your  forms  to  mortal  eye  ap|M*ar, 


Could  the  dark  veil  of  death  be  thrown 

aside, 
Then  might  I  sec  your  restless  ahadowi 

glide, 
With  watchful  care,  around  these  relics 

dear. 

If  so,  forgive  the  rude,  unhallowed  feet. 
Which    trode   so   thoughtless    o'er   your 

mighty  dead. 
I  would  not  thus  profane  their  k>w  retreat. 
Nor  trample  where  the  sleeping  warrior^s 

head 
Lay  pillowed  on  its  everlasting  bed. 
Age  after  age,  still  sunk  in  slumbers  sweeL 

Farewell ;  and  may  you  still  in  peace  re- 
pose. 

Still  o'er  you  may  the  flowers,  untrodden, 
bkx>m, 

And  gently  wave  to  every  wind  that  blows. 

Breathing  their  fragrance  o'er  each  looelj 
tomb. 

Where,  earthward  mouldering,  in  the  same 
dark  womb, 

Ye  mingle  with  the  dust,  from  whence  ye 
ro?e. 


THE  WARRIOR'S  EXECUTION. 

Besidk  the  stake,  in  fetters  bound, 

A  captive  warrior  lay. 
And  slept  a  sleep  as  sweetly  sound. 

As  childn*n's  after  play; 
Although  the  morrow's  sun  would  cone 
To  light  him  to  his  martyrdom. 

And  as  he  slept,  a  cheering  dream 

His  Hitting  hours  Ix^guird: 
He  htfMxl  Ix^side  his  native  stream. 

And  ela<«i>ed  his  flrst-bom  child. 
Tlie  wife,  tluit  drest  his  hunter*fare. 
And  all  his  little  ones  were  there. 


1820-30.] 


MICAH   P.    FLINT. 


60 


The  buried  feelings  of  past  years 
With  that  sweet  yision  sprung, 

Till  his  clos'd  lids  were  moist  with  tears, 
That  anguish  had  not  wrung. 

But  they  were  kindly  tears — ^not  weak, 

That  oours'd  each  other  down  his  cheek. 

Again  he  heard  those  accents  dear — 

No— 'twas  the  savage  yell, 
That  burst  upon  his  sleeping  ear, 

And  broke  the  magic  spelL 
A  moment — and  his  waken'd  eye 
Had  scorch'd  its  lingering  moisture  dry. 

The  sun  sprang  up  the  morning  sky, 

And  roll'd  the  mists  away ; 
But  he  was  nerv'd  to  sufferance  high; 

And  saw  without  dismay 
That  cheerful  sun  in  glory  rise, 
As  though  to  mock  his  agonies. 

Amid  the  flames,  proud  to  the  last. 

His  warrior-spirit  rose, 
And  looks  of  scorn,  unblenching,  cast 

Upon  his  circling  foes : 
"Think  ye  I  feel  these  harmless  fires? 
No— by  the  spirits  of  my  sires ! 

"I,  that  have  made  your  wigwams  red, 
Your  women  captive  borne, 

Aod  from  your  bravest  chieflain's  head 
The  badge  of  triumph  torn : 

Think  ye  I  feel  these  harmless  fires  ? 

No— by  the  spirits  of  my  sires  I 

"  This  frame  to  ashes  ye  may  bum. 
And  give  the  winds  in  vain ; 

I  know  ye  cannot  thus  return 
Your  friends,  these  hands  have  slain : 

Think-ye  I  feel  these  harmless  fires  ? 

No— by  the  spirits  of  my  sires  I 

"  Shades  of  my  Fathers !— oh  draw  near, 
And  greet  me  from  the  fiame : 

My  foes  have  drawn  no  coward-tear. 
To  stain  my  warrior  fame ; 


Nor  wrung  one  plaint  amid  these  fires, 
To  shame  the  spirits  of  my  sires. 

"  They  come— on  yonder  fleecy  cloud 
Slow  sails  the  shadowy  throng ; 

They  bend  them  from  their  misty  shroud, 
And  catch  my  dying  song : 

I  mount  in  triumph  from  these  fires, 

To  join  the  spirits  of  my  sires." 


THE  CAMP  MEETING. 

There  is  a  lovely  vale,  that,  isle-like, 

sleeps 
Embosom'd  in  the  rough  and  craggy  hills 
Of   Tennessee.      Girt  round,  as  with  a 

storm 
Toss'd  sea,  by  mountains  hoar,  precipitous 
And  wild,  its  verdant  basin  lies  at  rest, 
And  in  the  summer-sunshine  smiles,  as 

'twere 
A  soft  and  beauteous  dimple  on  the  harsh 
And  furrow'd  visage  of  the  land.     'Twas 

eve, 
The  loveliest  of  the  spring,  and  in  that 

vale. 
From  their  fax  homes  among  the  distant 

hiUs, 
And  desert  solitudes,  a  mighty  throng 
Had  gathered  round,  to  meet  and  worship 

God. 
There  were  the  gray-hair'd  fathers  of  the 

land; 
And  there,  in  sober  manhood's  hardiest 

prime. 
Their   forest-sons.    And  their  sons'  sons 

were  there; 
Their  young  eyes  glist'ning  with  the  looks 
Of  aw'd  and  wondering  curiosity. 
And  there  were  mothers  with  their  infant 

babes. 
Delightful  burdens,   slumbering  in  their 

arms: 


eo 


MICAH    p.    FLINT. 


[llttO-aOl 


And  aged  matronn,  and  the  young  and  fair- 
liair'd  maidons,  with  their  eyes  of  light, 

and  looks 
That  told  the  sweet  day-dreams  of  youth 

and  hope. 
There  were  the  young  dlrines,  severely 

plain 
In  dress,  and  look  of  sanctity ;  and  there 
Old  pilgrims  of  the  cross,  whose  wander- 
ing feet, 
For  three-score  years,  had  borne  to  cities 

full. 
To  crowded  populous  plains,  and  to  the  few, 
That  met  and  worship'd  in  the  wilderness. 
The  GoflpcFs  peaceful  mission;  who  had 

preaeh'd 
From  the  broad  Liawrence  and  his  nursing 

lakes. 
To  streams   that  ripple  in  the  southern 

breeze; 
And  still  the  burden  of  their  theme,  to  laud 
The  power  of  EUm  who  died  upon  the 

tree. 
Such  was  the  crowd,  that  from  their  dis- 
tant homes 
Had  met,  and  peopled  thai  green  solitude. 
The  shades  of   evening  slowly  gathered 

round. 
And  deepened  into  gloom,  until  at  length 
Their  bright  and  cheerful  fires  were  kin- 
dled up. 
And  they  in  many  a  scattered  group  were 

seen. 
Some  visiting  around  from  tent  to  tent ; 
Some  meeting  in  the  midst  with  inter- 
change 
Of  friendly  questionings  and  words  of  love. 
And  greetings  apofttolic     And  there  were 
That  walk*d  apart,  as  though  wrapt  up  in 

deep 
And  solitary  meditations.     They, 
Perchance,  dwelt  on  the  coming  rites,  and 

girt 
Them  for  the  sanctuar>'*s  M»r\'i<»e^ 
Meanwhile  the  mountains  with  their  tow*r- 
ing  peaks. 


pic- 


Stood  forth,  their  blackening 

tur'd  on 
The  sky,  as  from  behind  their  sommitt  n^e 
The  full-orb*d  moon,  and  far  o'er  halk  and 

vales 
Her  pale  and  melancholy  radiance  east 
Her  slanting  rays  glanc'd  through  the  open- 

ing  trees. 
And  here  and  there,  at  intervals  between 
Their  branches,  some  bright  star  wmi  teen, 

as  'twere 
A  living  spirit,  looking  forth  from  ill 
Blue  resting  place*    But  the  dim  li^  of 

moon 
And  stars  shone  feebly  thioagfa  that  Ibr^ 

est's  gloom. 
Nor  lighted  up  its  somber  ablea,  obscure 
And  dun,  save  where  a  thomand  toidict 

from 
Its  giant  trunks  suspended,  shed  arooad 
Their   fiery  brilliance,  and  display'd  its 

broad 
And  overhanging  arches,  and  its  huge 
And  ivy-wreathed  columns,  till  it  leem'd 
A  glorious  temple,  worthy  of  a  Giod. 
At  length  the  hour  of  evening  woiahip 

came; 
And  on  their  rustic  seats,  fresh  deft,  and 

hewn 
From  the  huge  poplars,  and  in  many  a 

range 
Of  cin*ling  rows  dispos'd,  in  quiet  nt 
Tlie  expectant  multitude.     Oh,  'twas  a 

scene! 
The  £(iient  thousands,  that  were  list'ning 

there, 
'Midst  the  gray  columns  of  that  ancient 

wood. 
Its  dark  green  roof,  the  rows  of  whitening 

tents, 
Tlu&t  circled  in  the  distance,  and  the  dear 
And  sparkling  waters  of  the  mountain- 

stn*am, 
In  ton*h-li«rht  g]<*aming,  as  it  danc'd  along ; 
^Viul,  more  than  all,  the  rustling  kave%  that 

caught 


1820-3a] 


MICAH   P.   FLINT. 


61 


On  their  moist    surfaces    the  light,  and 

wav'd 
On  every  bough,  now  in  their  native  green, 
And  now  in  burnished  gold.    The  preach- 
er rose: 
He  was  an  aged  veteran  of  the  cross, 
Whose  thin,  gray  locks  had  whiten'd  in 

the  snows 
Of  four-score  winters,  and  whose  feeble 

sight 
No  longer  fiom  their  lettered  tablets  conn'd 
The  chosen  text,  and  answering  song  of 

praise; 
But  with  a   memory    quicken'd,  till    it 

seem'd 
Almost  an  inspiration,  and  a  voice 
That  age  alone  made  tremulous,  he  spoke 
A  simple,  well  known  hymn.     And  when 

he  ceas'd. 
From  the  deep  silence  of  that  desert  vale,^ 
A  mighty  sound,  the  mingling  voices  of 
A  thousand  tongues,  in  one  proud  anthem 

rose; 
And  as  it  rose,  far   trough  its  hoary 

depths, 
The  forest  shook;  and  from  the  distant 

hills, 
like  the  far  rush  of  many  waters,  deep. 
Long,  and  reverberating  echoes  came. 
Loud  burst  the  song ;  now  swelling  to  the 

sky — 
Now  sofl'ning  down,  and  at  each  measured 

dose. 
Along  the  woods  expiring ;  till  at  length 
Twas  hush'd  into  a  stillness  so  intense, 
That  the  half  sigh  of  penitence  alone, 
Throughout  that  multitude,  was  audible. 
And  tben  again  that  trembling  voice  was 

heard. 
In  fervent  accents,  breathing  forth  the  warm 
And  heavenward  aspirations  of  a  soul, 
Whose  stragglings  shook  its  weak  old  tene- 
ment. 
His  words  were  simple,  humble,  solemn, 

deep — 
Sach  as  befit  a  prostrate  sinner's  lips, 


When  from  the  depths  his  earnest  cries  as- 
cend 
Up  to  the  mercy-seat ;  yet  words  of  power; 
As  'twere  strong  wrestlings,  that  would  not 

release 
The  cov'nant  angel,  'till  the  jubilee 
Of  slaves,  enfranchis'd  from  the  iron  chains 
Of  sin  imd  hell,  announced  the  captive  free. 
And  then  he  plead,  that  brighter  scenes  of 

things. 
And  glad  millennial  days  of  promise  yet 
In  this  dark  world  might  dawn  upon  his  eye, 
And  truth  and  mercy  fill  the  peopled  earth. 
E'en  as  the  waters  fill  their  pathless  beds. 
And  then,  invoking  audience  for  a  theme. 
To  which  the  babbling  tricks  of  eloquence 
Of  Greece  and  Rome  were  children's  idle 

sports, 
He  rose,  to  lure  back  wandering  souls  to 

God. 
His  burden  was,  "I  tell  you  there  is  joy 
In   heaven,  when   one   repentant   sinner 

comes 
Home  to  his  Grod."    The  trembling  orator, 
Pois'd  on  his  mighty  task,  and  with  his 

theme, 
Warm'd  into  power,  apphed  the  golden  key, 
That  opes  the  sacred  foimt  of  joy  and  tears. 
His  solemn  paintings  flash'd  upon  the  eye 
The  hopeless  realms,  where  dwells  impeni- 
tence. 
The  tearless  mansions  of  a  happier  world; 
The  Eternal  sitting  on  his  spotless  throne 
For  judgment,  and  an  universe  arraign'd 
For  doom,  unchanging,  as  his  trath  and 

power. 
Deem  not  I  fondly  dare  the  hopeless  task 
To  paint  the  force  of  sacred  eloquence. 
Or  trace  the  holy  man  through  all  his 

theme. 
Were  all  like  him,  thus  fearlessly  to  grasp 
The  pillars  of  the  dark  colossal  towers 
Of  the  destroyer's  kingdom,  'till  it  shook, 
A  happier  era  soon  might  dawn  to  earth. 
E'en  yet  in  better  hours  o'er  memory  comes 
His  picture  of  the  wand'ring  prodigal. 


[1- 


I     '  I 


TMK  <II.KNT  MnNK.-.» 


V  I'i'-r  :h<'  liiiiiilri-fl  >/uiui  iiioiiinlstiiat  ri-** 
»  '  '-    CiliiikiM*-  ll'iwi  riijir  plains  I  >\*»i\\ 

X     'r.i'idn}.     'J'li'rlnlidli-.->Iinnwli-  h  ;:li. 

\.'.'i  .ill  w:i«  >i]t[i(.  >a\>-  ih:ii  in  (In*  air. 

V  »  '.f  iIh"  tliTfv  <-Iiiuil-,  rart'i-rin:!  :>w;iri«. 
*A  .  h  iniin{>«{   ii4i:«',  siiliil   !»luwly  lu  iL*' 

\"A  a  .M»t"l  I >n •<./«•  >ui'pt  gi-ntly  oVr  ihi* 

>I  vin;;  ii*  rhan^rin;:  vtnlun-,  likir  iho  wa%  •■. 
A  :'»  w  rr]i;riiiii^  mid  tln-e  yfpul'li^Ti 
ILnl  tixi-d  their  Iioiih*.     In  sarktiviL  rlad 
Ihi'V  wi'H' ; 
^'  *■*  Ami  ill*  y  wi-iv  (il<i  aiid  pray,  an«l  walkid 
n>  in  dreams 
Kmaeiaie,  >all(»\v,   jiale.     Their   fiirmw«"«l 

hn»w, 
TiniiiL'h  in»w  >iilNliied.  ^how^l  mnnv  A  traiv 
Tlial   >inriny  pa>^«iim-i  onee  h:nl  wantoiieii 
^  IIu'P*. 

I    a-ki-il    I  lie   wav,   tlie    (VMintrv,  and    the 
*  -  !  loiiih«. 

"*"*'■*'      '  Oiif  fifi;:'T  on  tlieir  lip.  th*»  other  haii^l 
Kai-ed  to  ill'-  -kv,  thev  motion'd  mo 

•  m 

I'JiaM  lie\  w  lie  vnw  ed  III  >ilenn-.  and  niijhl 

.  «'|\  e 

■'        *'  Ni»  aei-ehl  ti»  Iheir  ihoii'Miio.       1  was    s;iid 

aniiinii. 
•'''*'  .That   ihiv   h.'ul  deeply  !*iiin'd   )>«-vrind  ihi' 

M-a-. 

...    .    »*■  MljollL'li!    ,,,,  ,      ,  .       I  ,  . 

^     "  1  lial  nln-  ]i:i>i    pntt  tieed  iTU«*l  Jh TJIirV 

iTii  a  tMini  li>  arl.  thai  hroke,  when  he  jimvetl 
Aii<l   ^ii!ik    ill   lieaut\'<>    hli'diteil    hlouni   to 


»  ■     Ik 


I 


:ir;li. 


e;ir 


'  Aiiiiiii-  I'.  '"I-  :iri  ill!'-  tra\  in  ^\in<-.  (hat  ni<e 
■.'■1  "it'.  ntH'on-   ,.  I    ,        .       I     *  I  •     !  .  «•  ■      1 

,  1  nr  \in.tl     h'.UltK  -!•  \V  hi-  tli;ire-.l  trielid. 

■  ■ 

A  :iiii'l.  Ilk-    I.t   ■■■  r.  i.ad  taii'n  Imin  {miMi  r. 

^      ■    ■%.         !'r»    p-"*.   a'"d       ,   .  t         1         ■         ■        •  ■  111 

*  *  ^^  I  !:•  \  a.i  I. .ill  I',  ij.  '1  iiijii  part-:  ha«l  iM-vn 

I 

XX.     n  I.I  J. II  •  \  :   .^    \  '   :.     .    1..-    ..-     .  t  •  ..    •ri.r   -1     ■  l.i  Traj-i- .  I 

1  ■     ,     ■      •  ■     '      I   ■  •     .  •■         T-      !■  •:  1   !      r 

'  •' .     ■••.-■■•.      ■    ■■■     -    .-    I'l  !n»i    I  .•  -."I  I*    th  .1    *•»•  I 

«  ■     .;.  !    II-  tr    <     .  >.-."•      \-.  ■    :    •:.     Ii    V-  III.    li>t    UT  I 

'.      ■     •:..   ..■--.'.  r.      :   •    ■    V..-.--  .     :  * 


1820-30.] 


MICAH    P.    FLINT. 


63 


Where  pageants,  music,  beauty,  wine  and 

mirth. 
Ambition,  favor,  grandeur,  all  that  glares, — 
A  king  and  courtiers,  hated  and  caress'd. 
In  seeming  held  the  keys  of  love  and  joy. 
Remorse  had  smitten  them.     Her  snakes 

had  stung 
Their  hearts ;  and  the  deep  voice,  that  all 

on  earth 
Is  vanity,  had  scattered  their  gay  dreams. 
They  clad  themselves  in  hair,  and  took  a 

vow 
To  break  their  silence  only  at  the  tomb.* 
Haply,  they  thought  to  fly  from  their  dark 

hearts; 
And  they  came  o*er  the  billow,  wand'ring 

still 
Far  to  the  west.     Here,  midst  a  boundless 

waste 
Of  rank  and  gaudy  flowers,  and  o'er  the 

bones 
Of  unknown  races  of  the  ages  past. 
They  dwelt.    Themselves  knew  not  the 

deep,  dark  thoughts 
Of  their  associates.  When  the  unbidden  tear 
Rose  to  their  eye,  they  dashed  away  to 

earth 
The  moisture;   but  might  never  tell  the 

source 
Whence  it  was  sprung ;  nor  joy,  nor  hope, 

nor  grief. 
Nor  fear  might  count,  or  tell,  or  share  their 

throbs. 
When   sweet  remembrance  of  the  past 

came  o'er 
Their  minds  in  joy,  no  converse  of  those 

yearfi 
Might  soothe  the  present  sadness  of  their 

state. 
Man's  heart  is  made  of  iron,  or  'twould 

burst 
'Midst  mute  endurances  of  woes,  like  these. 
I  saw  the  sun  behind  the  western  woods 


*By  thdr  tows,  thiej  are  pennitted  to  speak  Just  before 
death. 


Gro  down  upon  their  shorn  and  cowled 

heads. 
No  vesper  hymn  consoled  their  troubled 

thoughts. 
Far  o'er  the  plain  the  wolf's  lugubriouB 

howl, 
The  cricket's  chirp,  and  the  nocturnal  cry 
Of  hooting  owls,  was  their  sad  evening  song. 


THE  BEECH  WOODS. 

Groye,  rearing  thy  green  head  above  the 

smoke 
And  morning  mists,  I  bend  me  to  thy  shade, 
And  court  thy  shelter  from  the  ceaseless 

hum. 
And  wearying  bustle,  of  the  dusty  town, 
To  taste  thy  coolness,  privacy  and  peace. 
What  string  invisible,  sweet  beedien  wood, 
Know'st  thou  to  harp,  that  here  my  morning 

dreams 
Of  youth,  my  young  imaginings,  return 
In  all  the  freshness  of  their  rainbow  hues? 
My  earliest  love  was  for  the  dark  green 

woods. 
From  stinted  wishes,  cares  and  toils  at 

home, 
From  master's  frown  at  school,  the  bitter 

scorn 
Of  dark-ey'd  maids  belov'd,  that  vanquish'd 

me 
In  the  proud  struggles  of  the  dawning  mind ; 
From  all  the  sad  presages  of  the  years 
To  come,  the  cypress-woven  destiny. 
Which  my  young  eye,  prophetic,  ken'd  from 

far; 
From  emulation's  early  fires ;  from  pride, 
And  hope  just  op'ning  in  the  bud,  and 

nipp'd 
By  early  frost,  I  bounded  to  the  woods. 
The  stillness  reached  my  heart     The  cool- 
ing shade 
Soon  taught  my  throbbing  pulses  rest. 


64 


MICAH    P.    FLINT. 


[UttO-au. 


'Twaiiy  as  the  grove  rutuni'd  my  yuutliful 

love, 
And  fondly  cUL*pod  me  in  maternal  aims, 
And  on  her  motfiiy  pillow  laid  my  head. 
E'en  there  my  youthful  pahu^ed  of  ho]>e 
All  rosie  amidst  the  treed.     My  fairy  scenes 
Of  love  and  joy  were  all  beneath  the  sliade. 
Wonk  caiuKH  paint  the  vistionar}'  thoughts 
That  rose,  8|H>ntaneouih  ba  rei*Iin*d  I  lay 
To  list  the  birds  that  btruck  tlieir  solemn 

notes, 
Unfrequent,  aw*d,  and  as  a  temple  hymn. 
With  turtleV  nxNui  at  close ;  and  saw  the 

flowers 
Bend  with  the  humble-bee,  as  from  their  cup 
It,  busy,  drew  ambn>sia,  Ix^aring  home 
The  yellow  plunder  on  its  loaded  thi^i<i« 


Your  votary  to  mellow  into  age. 

And  doff,  resigned,  the  flaunty  thoughts  of 

youth, 
Its  Aowuig  tresses,  and  its  unscathed  brow, 
E'en  as  your  fallen  leaves  pkah  in  the 

stream. 
Aecept,  ye  bet^en  woods,  my  filial  thankf 
For  parent's  love  vouchsaTd  at  mom  and 

noon. 
Oh!  grant  me  shelter  in  your  shade  in  i^ 
Teach  me  to  dwell  in  mem'r)',  neath  your 

boughs 
On  the  com|)anions  of  my  morning  dawn. 
Of  wliom  but  few  still  walk  above  the  soiL 
Sweet  Ls  the  mem'ry  of  their  kindncMeiL 
The  thought  of  eudi  by  distanctt,  time,  or 

death 


And  tra«*d  it  by  ite  organ-tones  through  air,  j  I"  render'd  holy.  Teach  me  patiently  to  wait 


Sidling  from  4ight,  like  a  dark,  fading  |>oint. 
These  voices  from  the  spirit  of  the  groves 
With  gentle  whis|)erings  inspir*d  within 
A  holy  calm,  and  thoughts  of  love  and 

|ieacc. 
And  sintM*,  in  forest  wanderinjrs  of  years, 
Wlieneer    my   couivc    led    through    the 

b(*e<*hen  woods. 
The    M:mtuan's    ** spreading    beech"    to 

memory  sprung. 


Till  my  time  c(»me.    Oh !  teadi  mo,  beecbco 

woods. 
As  spring  will  clothe  your  bought  again 

with  leaves, 
I,  too,  shtUl  spring  immortal  from  the  dut 


THE  SHO.SHONEE  MARTYR. 


Ld^e  vouthtul  pkiymute  dear.    >\  hen  from ;  t^  4,  •  *  j  « 

\     ,    ,         ^  In  Sewiissema  s  in-eenest  dell, 

the   H-d  ^ 


Of  pain  arising,  my  6rst  feeble  steps 


Beside  its  clear  and  winding  stream. 
The  Sli<»h<)n«'<'  at  evening  tell 


Still  l«-d  iiic  to  the  gnives;  an<l.alwuvs  kind,    4  .  1      /•  .     .1    .1    .       n      •  u- 
„  »    ,      .      ,  '  A  tale  of  truth,  tlmt  well  might 

I  e  never  tiuinted,  slander  d  me,  d«H.>eive«u   1.         ,,       ., ,       ,,       ,        , 
-,     ,     ,  .       t        t    A  iKM't  s  wild  and  bas«?less  dn*ai-«, 

Moi'krd  at   my  son-uws;  proudly  slirunk  »,.  .1    .       ^  ^t       .  . , 

^  •  I  ^  If  ni:uiy  an  eye  tlmt  saw  the  sight. 


seem 
*am. 


away 

Fn»m  tlw  embraces  of  vour  dniid  son. 
A^  niad'ning  wrath  anise  within  my  breast. 
And   counserd   <ln.'p    revenge    tur   cruel 


Wen^  not  as  yet  iiiirlimin<'<l  and  bright. 
And  iminv  an  ear,  that  hearrl  it  alL 
Still  stanh^l  bv  the  s«'ar  leaf's  fall. 


wroiijr*. 


For  years  the  trih«>  had  dwelt  in  peace, 
Aniiilst  the  fn*e  and  full  incn*ase. 
That  Natiin*  in  luxuriance  viidds, 
Kniin  th«*ir  aIino<«t  uneiiliur'd  fields. 


In  tlie  siill  air  rejK>sing,  your  pn»«'n  hf*nds 

Still  read  to  me  how  ve  had  irentlv  U-nt 

Brfofx*  thf  >tnnn*  of  feiiiiirif*,  unharinM. 

Sweet  Im-i.Ih  II  w.xhK,  ye  hmhi  will   richly ,  Without  on«*  s<i«ne  of  {iiLvMne  Mrife 

•"*'  I  To  mar  thrir  jM-a«'eful  village  life. 

With  aiitimur-:  ;:..1.1  and  piirjilf;  ye  wouM  The  biiri«-d  hateliet,  ni-nl  in  nist, 

^«ir!>  |II:iil  iUin(»t  mouldird  int«>  dust. 


1 


.] 


MICAH    P.    FLINT. 


65 


er  the  spot  where  it  was  laid, 
ace-tree  threw  a  broadening  shade, 
ose  green  tarf  the  warriors  met, 
lok'd  the  circling  calumet. 

5th  Discord,  the  Fury,  came, 

5  her  murd'rous  torch  of  flame, 

ndled  that  intestine  Arc, 

ih  the  virtues  all  expire ; 

,  like  the  lightning-flame,  bums  on 

ierce  for  being  rained  upon 

wers  of  tears,  which  vainly  drench 

that  blood  alone  can  quench. 

deftain  brothers  met  in  pride, 
brethren  warred  on  either  side, 
ndred  hands,  that  clasped  bcibre, 
leeply  dyed  in  kindred  gore, 
lany  fought ;  how  many  fell ; 
3  not  now  to  pause,  and  tell : 
,  that  tale  may  be  another's — 

•  lov'd  the  strife  of  Brothers. 

nooth  plain,  of  living  green, 
ningled  monuments  are  seen, 
■crown'd  hillocks,  circling  round 
len  Chieftain's  central  mound ; 
iarly  on  that  fatal  plain 
Lindred  meet,  and  mourn  the  slain, 
ig  their  humble  graves  anew 
)nd  affection's  hallow'd  dew. 

time  and  truce  at  length  subdued 
rceness  of  that  fatal  feud, 
iieflain  sent  his  council  call, 
ery  warrior  sought  the  hall, 
»ke  the  pipe,  and  cha^e  away 
*mory  of  that  fatal  fray. 

stice  claims  another  life — 

r  victim  to  that  strife ; 

T  stem  law  may  not  be  chang'd ; 

irrior  slumbers  unaveng'd. 

ne  must  die ;  for  life  alone 

•  another  life  atone. 

at  length  decreed,  to  take 
ott,  for  atonement's  sake, 


By  lot,  from  those  against  whom  lay 
The  fearful  balance  of  that  day. 

The  solemn  trial  now  had  come, 
And,  slowly  to  the  meaaui-'d  drum, 
Mai'ch,  one  by  one,  the  victim  band, 
To  where  two  aged  warriors  stand 
Beside  a  vase,  whose  ample  womb 
Contains  the  fatal  lot  of  doom. 
That  mystic  rod,  prepared  with  care, 
Lies  with  three  hundred  others  there ; 
And  eacli,  in  turn,  his  fate  must  try, 
With  beating  heart  and  blindfold  eye. 
Woe  to  the  hand  that  lifts  it  high ; 
The  owner  of  that  hand  must  die. 

Could  I  in  words  of  power  indite, 

1  would  in  thrilling  verse  recite 

How  many  came,  and  tried,  and  pass'd. 

Ere  the  dread  lot  was  drawn  at  last, 

By  a  lone  widow,  whose  last  son 

Follow'd  her  steps,  and  saw  it  done. 

I  would,  in  magic  strains,  essay 

To  paint  the  passions  in  their  play, 

And  all   their  deep-wrought  movements 

trace. 
Upon  that  son's  and  mother's  face. 

Yes, — ^T  would  picture,  even  now. 
The  paleness  of  her  care-worn  brow, 
The  tearless  marble  of  her  cheek. 
The  tender  voice  that  cried,  though  weak, 
In  tones  that  seem'd  almost  of  joy, — 
"At  least  it  is  not  thine,  my  boy  I " 
I  would  describe  his  frantic  cry, 
Wlien  the  dark  symbol  caught  his  eye ; 
The  look  of  flxed  and  settled  gloom 
With  which  he  heard  the  fatal  doom ; 
And  the  flush'd  cheek,  and  kindling  glance, 
Which,  from  the  high  and  holy  trance 
Of  filial  inspiration,  caught 
The  brightness  of  his  glorious  thought, 
When  through  their  circling  ranks  he  press'd. 
And  thus  the  wondering  crowd  address'd : 

"  Hear  me,  ye  warriors,  I  am  young ; 
But  feelings,  such  as  pi-ompt  my  tongue, 


M 


MIC  AH    V.   FLINT. 


[1^20-31 


flight  even  to  a  child  impiut 

Tliat  living  language  of  the  lieart. 

Which  needs  no  rules  of  age  nor  art 

To  recommend  lU  wann  apiH'al 

To  every  bostom  that  can  feeL 

Oh!  let  mj  grief-worn  mother  live, 

And,  for  her  life,  111  fnrely  give 

Thifl  life  of  mine,  whoso  youthful  prime 

Is  yet  unworn  by  toil  or  time. 

An  ofTc'ring,  such  ba  this,  will  plea<*e 

The  ghost,  whose  manes  ye  would  appease. 

More  than  the  lai<t  few  days  of  one 

Wliofie  course  on  earth  is  almo»<t  run. 

"  Her  aged  head  is  gray  with  years, 
Her  cheeks  are  channelM  de<>p  with  tears; 
While  every  Iwk  is  raven  now, 
l'|ion  my  smooth,  unfurnm'*d  brow, 
And«  in  my  veins,  the  puqdtr  flood 
Of  my  brave  fatiier's  Warrior  bUxKl 
Is  swelling,  in  the  d«H'p,  full  tide 
Of  youthful  strength,  and  youthful  pride. 
Her  trembling  stejw  can  scarce  explore 
The  [Miths  she  trod  so  ligiit  of  yon* ; 
While  I  can  match  tlie  wild  di*er's  flight. 
On  level  plain,  or  m(»untain  height. 
And  cha-«e,  untirM,  from  day  to  day, 
The  flying  bison,  on  their  way. 

**  Oh !  ye  art*  sons,  and  on<*e  were  prcs^'d 

In  fondness  to  a  mother's  breast. 

Tliink  of  her  soft  voice,  that  caress'd ; 

Her  arms,  where  ye  were  lull'd  to  rest; 

Her  quivering  kiss,  that  was  impress*d 

So  fondly  on  your  sickenM  bmw ; 

( )h !  think  of  these,  and  tell  me  now, 

If  ye,  as  sons,  can  hen»  deny 

A  son  the  privilt-go  to  die 

For  her,  who  thus  wakM,watchM,  and  wept,!^^**  y^'inur>  wind  hM  strippM  the  trees, 

.Had  IniwM  Iht  head  in  grief,  and  died, 
:And  tlun*  -III'  >lunilnTs  at  hi<»side. 


VnHi  dwellers  of  the  solitude, 
Had  hearts  tliat  inly  thrilPd  to 
The  mi*ed  to  filial  virtue  due. 


I  will  not  waste  my  time,  nor  oil, 
V\Hm  a  scene  that  I  should  siioil ; 
Nor  labor  to  des<*ri)>e  tliat  pair, 
Striving  in  fond  aflfiHrtion  there, — 
The  darling  Min,  the  cherished  mother, — 
Which  should  die,  to  save  the  other. 

Ere  long  there  wa^  a  gathered  throngs 
Whence  n)>e  a  wild  and  solemn  song, — 
Tlie  death-song  of  tluit  martyr  aon ; 
And  thus  his  plaintive  descant  run : 

^  I  fear  not  the  silence,  nor  gloom  of  the 

grave  ; 
'Tis  a  pathway  of  shade  and  gaj  flowen 

to  tin.'  Bnive, — 
For  it  leuds  him  to  plains,  where  the  gfeuni 

of  the  sun 
Kindle  spring  in  their  ])ath,  that  will  nerer 

Ih»  done. 

**  Gn)v«Ns,  valleys  and  mountains,  bright 
streamh't  and  dell. 

Sweet  haunts  of  my  youth,  take  mj  part- 
ing f:in*w<»ll ; 

Ye  braves  of  my  kindred,  and  thoa,  mo^ 
er,  adi«*u ; 

(ireut  shades  of  my  Fathers,  I  haslea  to 
you !  " 

Ui*  fell.     The  verdant  mound,  that  preH*d 
r|»un  his  young,  heroic  bn^ast. 
By  warrior  hands  was  n.*ar*d  and  dreasM 
The  mother,  too,  enr  the  rude  breeae 


While  in  h(T  cradling  arms  he  slept 
Ye  cniuiot.     No, — then*  is  n(»t  one 
Ttiat  ran  n'fiiM*  the  virtini  son. 
Warrinr-,  the  voiinjr  nianV  talk  is  done." 


Til*  !H'j»m\iii;r  <hoiit,  that  biii^t  almid 
Fnim  all  that  wild,  untuti>rM  en>wd. 
Was  proof,  that  even  they,  the  nidc 


H:inl  by  the  vilhej**  on  the  shore, 
Tle-ir  niitniul.-  an*  »M'en,  all  studded  o'er 
With  \ariniis  wild  fitiwers,  by  the  <'arc 
Of  .-«»ii-  and  iiioilnr*  planted  then*; 
Aii'J.  to  this  day,  they  tell  their  tale. 
In  S«wa*>senia*s  dark,  grt^en  vale. 


30.] 


MICAH   P.    FLINT. 


67 


ASSIN6  THE  GRAVE  OF  MY  SISTER.' 

onder  shore,  on  yonder  shore, 

>w  verdant  with  its  depth  of  shade, 

ath  the  white-armed  sycamore, 

lere  is  a  little  in&nt  laid. 

ive  this  tear. — ^A  brother  weeps. — 

there  the  &ded  floweret  sleeps. 

ileeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone, 
e  sunmier's  forests  o'er  her  wave; 
sighing  winds  at  autumn  moan 
oond  the  little  stranger's  grave, 
tough  they  murmured  at  the  fate 
le  so  lone  and  desolate. 

ands  that  seem  like  sorrow's  own, 
eir  funeral  dirges  faintly  creep; 

deep'ning  to  an  organ  tone, 
all  their  solemn  cadence  sweep, 
pour,  unheard,  along  the  wild, 

desert  anthem  o'er  a  child. 

ame,  and  passed.     Can  I  forget, 
w  we  whose  hearts  had  hailed  her  birth, 
bree  autumnal  suns  had  set, 
isigned  her  to  her  mother  earth  I 
md  their  memories  pass  away ; 
riefe  are  deeper  traced  than  they. 

lid  her  in  her  narrow  cell, 

%  heaped  the  sofl  mould  on  her  breast; 


iMoeiidlng  the  Mis«iMippi,  there  ia  a  long  sweep- 
it  of  he«Tily  timbered  bottf^m  joAt  opposite  the 
!liickaaaw  Bluff,  a  name  which  is  given  to  one  of 
nliualas  of  high  land  which  jut  into  theallurinm 
rtMieh  the  riTer  from  time  to  time  on  its  eastern 
I  thiii  bottom,  at  the  distance  of  about  two  hundred 
'  paces  from  the  bank  of  the  river,  there  is  a  little 
1  which  are  deposited  the  remains  of  my  youngest 
She  was  bom  on  our  pa^mige  from  Arkansas  to 
'le<i,  in  the  fall  cf  1819,  and  survived  only  three 
it  that  time,  the  ^etflcment^  on  the  Miixiiwippi 
thin  and  remote  that  there  were  often  intervals  of 
n  forests  extending  from  twenty  to  thirty  miles 
<  shor«9.  It  WHS  in  tlie  uii<liit  of  one  of  thoK;,  and 
at  of  storms,  that  this  little  infttnt  wa«  bom  ;  and 


And  parting  tears,  like  rain-drops,  fell 

Upon  her  lonely  place  of  rest. 
May  angels  guard  it : — ^may  they  bless 
Her  slumbers  in  the  wilderness. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone : 
For,  all  unheard,  on  yonder  shore, 

The  sweeping  flood,  with  torrent  moan, 
At  evening  lifts  its  solemn  roar. 

As,  in  one  broad,  eternal  tide. 

The  rolling  waters  onward  glide. 

There  is  no  marble  monument, 
There  is  no  stone,  with  graven  lie. 

To  tell  of  love  and  virtue  blent 
In  one  almost  too  good  to  die. 

We  needed  no  such  useless  trace 

To  point  us  to  her  resting-place. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone ; 

But,  midst  the  tears  of  April  showers, 
The  genius  of  the  wild  hath  strown 

His  germs  of  fruits,  his  fairest  flowers, 
And  cast  his  robe  of  vernal  bloom 
In  guardian  fondness  o'er  her  tomb. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone ; 

Yet  yearly  is  her  grave-turf  dress'd. 
And  still  the  summer  vines  are  thrown, 

In  annual  wreaths,  across  her  breast, 
And  still  the  sighing  autunm  grieves. 
And  strews  the  hallowed  spot  with  leaves. 


it  is  there  that  she  waa  buried.  We  were  a«oending  the 
river  in  a  email  batteau,  and  were  entirely  alone,  having 
been  left  by  our  hands  a  few  miles  below.  Our  solitary 
situation — the  circumstances  of  her  birth — the  place  of 
her  burial — all  conspired  to  make  a  deep  and  lasting  im- 
pression on  my  mind.  Some  years  afterward  I  passed  the 
«ame  place,  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  on  my  way  up  the 
river,  in  a  steamboat.  Before  we  arrived  there,  I  had 
stolen  away  fh>m  the  crowded  bustle  of  the  cabin  to  a 
more  secluded  place  on  the  top  of  the  boat,  that  I  might 
indulge  my  fcelinpi  without  observation  or  restraint.  I 
shall  not  attempt  to  dewribe  them  now.  I  felt  a  desire 
to  coniiecrate  the  memory  of  this  "  desert  bom ''  and 
"de?ert  buried,"  in  the  minds  of  some  whose  friendship 
ha«  been,  and  ever  will  be,  dear  to  me. 


CHARLES  HAMMOND. 


WiiKN  Charles  Hammond  was  born,  September,  1779,  his  fiithcr  rcsHled  in  Bdli> 
more  count/,  Maryland.  He  emigrated  to  Ohio  county,  Vir«;iniu,  in  17b5.  Am 
as  Cliarles  was  large  enough  to  work  in  the  wilderness,  he  was  n.H|uired  to 
the  severe  labors  incident  to  pioneer  life.  He  delighted  rather  in  the  duties  of  the 
night,  than  in  those  of  the  day ;  for,  when  supper  was  over,  un<ier  hh  father^s  instnie- 
tion,  he  either  read  or  studie<l,  or  listened  to  discussions  of  grave  political  questiOM) 
literary  recitations,  or  lustorical  descriptions.  His  father  could  recite  whole  plaji  of 
Shakspearf ,  and  had  committed  to  memory  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  and  other  poeai^ 

Karly  in  life,  Charles  manifested  an  aptitude  for  writing.  He  exhibited  a  vein  of 
poetic  satire,  in  rude  verses  about  his  father's  neighbors,  which  secured  him  seTeral  a^ 
vere  whippings.  Flogging  taught  him  caution,  but  did  not  dull  his  satiro— caotioo  m 
to  the  manner  in  which  he  published  his  verses  ;  but,  in  n^ference  to  persooalitiea,  ei- 
asperating  bei*ause  felicitously  descriptive,  neither  flogging  in  early,  nor  threats  ni 
bitter  abuse  in  a(\er-1ife,  <x>uld  teach  him  discn^tion.  Because  he  loved  his  pea  asd 
his  book,  and  though  a  steady,  was  a  reluctant  laborer  on  the  farm,  his  fiuher  deto^ 
mined  that  he  ^hould  be  a  lawyer.  Then  did  he,  for  the  first  time,  attend  an  instita- 
tion  of  learning.  He  was  taught  English  and  Latin  grammar  for  a  few  months,  wImb 
he  entered  the  office  of  Phillip  I>od<lridge,  of  Wellsburg,  Virginia,  as  a  law  stndesL 
He  studied  not  only  law,  but  |>oliticH]  economy  and  the  philosophy  of  history.  He 
was  a  thorough  and  judicious  reader,  and  ra[udly  gained  influence  among  those  widk 
whom  he  became  ac(|uuinted. 

In  1801,  Mr.  Haiimiond  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  He  (>i)ened  an  office  io  WaDe- 
burg,  Virginia  Pnu'tice  came  slowly.  He  had  l('i>ure  fur  political  reading,  and  he 
did  not  fail  to  improve  it  advantageously ;  nor  was  ho  asliamed,  when  he  had  no  brieb 
to  prepare,  to  resort  to  other  labor  for  his  <laily  bn*iul.  He  |)osted  books,  and  settM 
a<*cuunt8  for  merchants,  tluit  his  own  }>ersonid  ac(*(»unt*  might  be  liquidated  and  Ue 
wunlrobe  renewe^l.  He  wrote  frequently  for  the  ni\V'ijwnKT>,  iK'tween  1>W>1  and  181i» 
on  political  questions ;  but  on  account  of  the  audacity  of  his  spirit,  and  the  keeaneee 
of  his  satire,  did  mrt  always  readily  find  a  publi!»her  for  his  articles.  In  1813,  being 
th«Mi  a  resident  of  R^lmont  county,  Ohio,  he  detenniiie<l  to  >t4irt  a  pap<T  of  his  owa. 
(n  August,  1813,  the  first  number  of  the  Ohio  FedrralUt  apiM>an*<l,  at  Su  Cbunville. 
It  was  a  super-royal  tihiH.%  publl^hetl  by  John  Barry,  for  C.  Hammond.  Its  nioda 
was  characteristic — a  quotation  from  Cowper,  in  thes4.*  w(>nl^ : 

••  In  fnHHlomV  fleM  Advancing'  firm  hi»»  Untt, 
II*'  pUnU*  it  on  tbi'  lino  thut  Jii<*tiro  <lniwi«. 
And  will  piTvidl.  or  pi'rii*h  in  biT  cauHi>.** 

In  1817  the  Fedemlitt  was  discontinne^L     In  1816  Mr.  Hammond  was 

(  68) 


i 


182l>-30.]  CHARLES   HAMMOND.  69 

a  member  of  the  Ohio  House  of  Representatives,  for  Behnont  county ;  and  he  was 
re-elected  in  1817, 1818  and  1820.  In  1822,  having  been  unsuccessful  in  agricultural 
speculations,  by  which  he  had  hoped  lo  make  a  fortune,  he  removed  to  Cincinnati,  for 
the  purpose  of  pursuing  his  profession  closely,  and,  as  he  said,  determined  to  let  news- 
papers and  politics  alone.     He  was  not  able  to  keep  that  determination. 

During  1823  and  1824  he  wrote  frequently  on  local  and  national  questions.  In 
1825  he  succeeded  Benjamin  F.  Powers,  as  editor  of  the  Oincinnati  Gazette,  It  was 
then  published  semi-weekly,  and  its  motto  was — ^^  Measures,  not  MenP  It  became  a 
daily  in  June,  1827,  and  Mr.  Hanunond  was  its  editor  till  1830,  without  a  salary. 
He  then  demanded  $1000  per  annum,  and  it  was  paid  him  for  a  few  years,  afler 
which  be  received  one-third  of  the  profits,  until  April  third,  1840,  when,  in  the  sixty- 
first  year  of  his  age,  he  died. 

In  1823,  when  the  office  of  Reporter  for  the  Supreme  Court  of  Ohio  was  created, 
Mr.  Hammond  was  appointed  to  fill  it.  He  was  the  Reporter  until  1838,  when  he  re- 
tired from  the  bar.     The  first  nine  volumes  of  Ohio  Reports  were  by  him. 

As  a  legislator  and  as  an  editor  Charles  Hammond  was  an  earnest  advocate  of  a 
general  system  of  internal  improvement,  and  of  a  thorough  conmion  school  system. 
He  was  with  the  friends  of  education  when  the  first  general  law  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  schools  was  passed,  in  1821 ;  and  in  1836,  while  he  stood  alone  among  the 
political  editors  of  Cincinnati,  in  vigorous  rebuke  of  the  abolition  riots,  which,  by  at- 
tempts to  destroy  the  liberty  of  the  press,  disgraced  that  city,  he  was  foremost  among 
those  who  cheered  the  self-sacrificing  friends  of  education,  then  laboring  for  an  intel- 
ligent revision  of  the  school  law  of  1825. 

As  a  joumaHst,  Mr.  Hanmiond  described  himself  when,  in  answer  to  strictures 
Qpoo  thjB  Gazette  in  1832,  he  defined  what  he  thought  an  editor  ought  to  be : 

The  legitimate  vocation  of  a  newspaper,  is  to  circulate  nseM  intelligence,  and  promulgate  just 
•nd  fanpartial  views  of  public  aflfairs.  An  editor  should  be  one  in  whom  confidence  could  be  re- 
posed, for  Boondncss  of  judgment,  integrity  of  purpose,  and  independence  of  conduct  He  should 
pones  varied  knowledge  and  large  experience  ;  and  he  should  feci  his  station  to  be  rather  that  of 
a  judge  dispensing  justice,  than  that  of  an  advocate  making  out  a  case.  He  should  be  zealous  of 
the  tmfh,  and  of  that  chiefly  ;  and  he  should  fee]«that  to  deceive  purposely,  was  infamous ;  to  de- 
edve  from  credulity  or  inattention,  highly  reprehensible.  He  should  distinctly  comprehend  that 
those  who  differ  from  him,  might  be  as  honest  as  himself,  and  as  well  informed  too  ;  and  he  should 
Vnxm  how  to  respect,  while  he  opposes  them. 

In  a  poem,  published  soon  after  Mr.  Hammond's  death,  William  D.  Gallagher  fitly 

characterized  him: 

Han  had  his  sympathies,  not  men  1 
The  whole  he  loved  and  not  a  part ! 
*  And  to  the  whole  he  gave  his  pen, 

His  years,  his  heart 

He  asked  no  leader  in  the  fight — 

No  **  times  and  seasons  "  sought  to  know- 
But  when  convinced  his  cause  was  right. 
He  struck  the  blow. 

While  editor  of  the  Gazette  Mr.  Hammond  oflen  indulged  the  talent  for  satirical 


70 


ClI  aULES   HAMMOND. 


[iKsa.31. 


I  vfiives,  manifesteil  by  him  when  a  boy — but  upon  political  or  local  topics.  lo  earlier 
lif'r  he  wrote  several  |K>einM  of  more  than  ordinary  merit,  and  he  wa«  always  prompt 
to  recognize  and  encourage  evidenccn  of  poetic  abilities  among  the  young  mea  and 
women  of  the  We^t. 


DOYHOOD. 

How  ofl»  amid  the  sordid  strife 
Of  worldly  wisdom,  liave  I  turned 

To  memory's  i»cenes  of  early  life, 

And  o*er  my  joyous  boyhood  mourned ; 

How  ofl  liuve  wi.Hh*d,  mid  care  and  pain, 

To  be  tliat  buoyant  boy  again ! 

To  sleep  beneath  the  slanting  roof. 
And  hear  the  pattering  ruin-drops  fall, 

Or  listen  to  the  lively  proof 

Ot*  vagrants  round  my  air}'  hall ; 

Yet  rise  at  mom  with  wonte<l  glee, 

To  wade  the  brook,  or  climb  the  tree. 

To  join  the  sturdy  rea|R*r*s  train — 
What  time  the  lark  her  matin  sings, 

Wlu^n,  mounting  with  im])as<iont.*d  strain. 
She  bathes  in  light  her  glittering  wings. 

And,  poised  in  air,  L«  si*arcely  se<*n. 

So  high  amid  the  dazzling  sheen. 

Twa^t  mine  to  trap  l)eside  the  stream. 
Or  angle  'neath  the  aider's  sluide  ; 

To  tend  the  plow,  or  drive  the  team. 
Or  MM*k  the  herd  in  distant  glade, 

AVherc  ofl,  from  clustering  thickets,  shrill 

Kiuig  out  tlie  notes  of  whip)M>wiI. 

Tlios<»  trembling  n«t«»s — S4»  long,  so  wild — 
Wt-n*  music  to  my  boyish  ear; 

Thou  gilt  backwani  flies — and  as  a  child 
KVn  now  methink^  the  S4»und  T  hear: 

Wliil<*  fancy  spreads  Ix-fore  my  eye 

The  tlfwy  ghide  and  m«x>nlit  sky. 

TIm*  lowing  henK  now  wending  slow, 
Along  the  wood,  their  homeward  way ; 


The  winding  stream's  dark  glosaj  flow, 
Tlie  lilied  vale,  the  woodland  gay, 

Still  float  in  visions  bland  and  bright, 

Aa  on  that  balmy  sunmier's  night,^- 
# 

When  standing  on  the  distant  hill. 
With  boy-bom  fiincies  wand'ring  free. 

I  saw  no  s|)ecter'd  form  of  ill 
Rise  in  the  bright  futurity ; 

But  all,  instead,  was  joyous,  clear. 

Buoyant  with  hope,  untouched  with  fear. 

Oh,  tliose  were  hoyliood*8  cloudleM  houn, 
And  sweet  on  wings  unsullied  flew ; 

But  pride  soon  drenm*d  of  kiflier  bowers, 
And  wealth  her  golden  luster  threw 

OVr  tempting  scc*nes,  as  false  as  fiur. 

And  baile  my  spirit  seek  her  there. 

'  And  I  liave  sought  her — not  in  rain ; 
j     I  might  have  piled  her  treasures  higb, 
'  But  tlutt  I  scorned  her  sonlid  reign, 
.      And  turned  me  from  her  soulless  eye. 
;  1  could  not  delve  her  dirty  mine, 
\ntl  would  not  won^hip  at  her  shrine* 


r 


I  would  not  stoop  to  flatter  power 
For  any  vil«*  and  si^lflsh  end ; 

I  would  not  cluingf\  with  every  hoar. 
My  faith,  my  feelings,  or  my  friead; 

And,  b'a-t  of  all.  would  I  intmst 

My  hojM's  to  the  ni*curs(*d  dust. 

I 
Th(*  (iod  that  n*are<l  the  woodland  betgfalii 

I     And  spn*ad  thr  flow*r^'  valleys  wide. 

!Awak«*<l.  within  my  mind,  delights 

That  spuni<*d  the  lures  of  human  pride. 
And  >tf>ni  forbade,  in  a(*c«*nts  known. 
To  worship  aught  beneath  his  throne. 


JAMES  HALL. 


James  Hall  was  born  at  Philadelphia,  August  nineteen,  1793.  He  relinquished  law 
studies  to  join  the  army  of  1812,  and  distinguished  himself  at  the  battle  of  Lundj's 
Lane,  and  the  Siege  of  Fort  Erie.  At  the  close  of  the  war,  having  been  appointed 
an  officer  in  the  bomb  vessel,  which  accompanied  Decatur's  squadron  against  the 
Algerines,  he  enjoyed  a  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean.  His  vessel  returned  to  the 
United  States  in  1815,  and  Mr.  Hall  was  stationed  at  Newport,  Rhode  Island.  He 
soon  after  resigned,  and  resumed  the  study  of  law  at  Pittsburgh. 

In  1820  Mr.  Hall  began  the  practice  of  law  at  Sliawneetown,  Illinois.  He  then 
commenced  a  series  of  "  Letters  from  the  West,**  which  were  published  in  the  Port' 
foHoy  at  Philadelphia— edited  by  his  brother,  Harrison  Hall — and  were  collected  with- 
out his  knowledge  and  published  in  a  volume  in  England.  Soon  after  he  removed  to 
Shawneetown,  Mr.  Hall  edited  the  Illinois  Gazette,  He  was  appointed  Circuit  Altor- 
Dey  for  a  district  comprising  ten  counties,  and  served  four  years,  afler  which  he  was 
chosen  Judge  for  the  same  circuit.  When  he  had  occupied  it  four  ycais  his  office  was 
abolished  by  a  change  in  the  judiciary  system  of  the  State.  He  was  afterward  for 
four  years  Treasurer  of  Illinois.  Meantime  he  continued  literary  labors,  editing  the 
Illinois  IfUeUigencery  writing  letters  for  the  Portfolio^  and  poems  and  sketches  for 
Flint's  Western  Review  at  Cincinnati,  signing  himself  Orlando. 

In  1829  Mr.  Hall  compiled  ^^The  Western  Souvenir,  a  Christmas  and  New  Yeast's 
Gtfi,"  It  was  the  first  annual  of  the  West.  N.  and  G.  Guilford,  at  Cincinnati,  were 
the  publishers.  The  Souvenir  was  a  neatly  printed  18mo.  volume,  containing  324 
pages.  It  had  an  engraved  title-page,  and  was  embellished  with  steel  engravings  of 
the  Peasant  Girl,  views  of  Cincinnati,  Pittsburgh  and  Frankfort,  of  a  Shawanoe  War- 
rior, and  of  an  Island  Scene  of  the  Ohio.  Its  poetical  contributors  were  James  Hall, 
Otway  Curry,  Nathan  Guilford,  Nathaniel  Wright,  S.  S.  Boyd,  Moses  Brooks,  John 
M.  Harney,  Harvey  D.  Little,  Caleb  Stark,  Ephraim  Robins,  John  B.  Dillon,  and 
Micah  P.  Flint  The  writers  of  its  prose  were  James  Hall,  Nathan  Guilford,  Mor- 
gan Neville,  Timothy  Flint,  Louis  R.  Noble,  John  P.  Foote  and  Benjamin  Drake. 
It  is  now  a  rare  book,  and  is  valuable  as  a  creditable  illusti*ation  of  early  art  and  litera- 
ture in  the  West 

In  December,  1830,  Mr.  Hall  started  the  Illinois  Magazine,  at  Vaudalia.  It  was  a 
monthly  octavo,  of  forty-eight  pages,  and  was  published  two  years.  The  editor  was  the 
chief  writer  for  its  pages.  James  H.  Perkins,  Salmon  P.  Chase,  Anna  Peyre  Dinnies 
(Moina),  and  Otway  Curry  wrote  occasionally.  Mr.  Hall  having  removed  to  Cincin- 
nati, the  lUinois  Magazine  was  discontinued,  and  The  Western  Monthly  there  estab- 
lished. It  was  the  same  size  of  its  predecessor,  but  had  the  assistance  of  a  number 
of  new  writers,  and  was  for  several  years  prosperous,     "hir.  Hall  conducted  it  till  1837, 

when  he  was  succeeded  by  James  Reese  Fry,  who  was  its  editor  until  it  was  discon- 

(71) 


72 


JAMES   HALL. 


[Id2a-JQ 


tinucd  in  1838.  «1anic^4  II.  Perkins,  William  D.  Gallaj^hor,  Cliarlcfl  A.  Joaes,  Otwaj 
Cuny,  Monpin  Nc'vilk%  llannaii  F.  Gould,  and  John  H.  James  were  frequent  oontril^ 
utora  to  the  Monthly. 

In  1836  Mr.  Hall  was  e](;cted  Gt^hicTof  the  Commercial  Bank  of  GncinnatL  la 
1853  he  waA  clioK'n  Prcsidt'nt  of  the  same  institution,  a  position  he  jet  hoId«.  His 
literarj  labors  have  been  confined  for  ten  or  twelve  years  past  to  a  revisioQ  of  hit 
works,  and  to  occasional  reviewa  of  books  for  the  Cincinnati  Gazette  and  dncinmati 
Times. 

^Ir.  IIall*s  works  are  comprised  in  twelve  volumes  and  one  pamphlet.  We  subjoin 
a  list: 

L«>(^ndii  of  thft  Wcfit    Philaildphia,  lf«32,  12ma;  2d  edition,  1833. 

Thv  SoldicrV  Bride,  aod  other  Talefl,  1832. 

The  Ilarpe^H  Head,  a  LeK**iMl  of  Kentucky,  1833. 

Skf.'tcbeii  of  the  West    Pbiladilpbia,  183j.  2  volt*..  12ma 

ThI«*8  of  the  Border.    rbllud*'lpbia,  1h:S5.  12mo. 

StatisticH  of  tbc  West  at  tbe  close  of  IhSH.    Cincinnati,  183G.  12mo. 

Notes  on  the  We8t«>m  Sutes.    l'bilu4Mpbia.  1838,  Umo ;  lt<39,  Cr.  8vo. 

Ufc  of  G<-neral  William  Henry  Hurricioii.     Ih36,  IHmo. 

Ilintory  of  tbe  Indian  Tritx'H,  liy  Tbunius  L.  Kenney  an<l  James  UalL     1838>'44,  S  vols.  FuUa 

The  WildcmeM  and  tbe  War  Patb.    New  York.  184.5.  I2ma 

Anniverhary  Addrem  before  the  Mercantile  Library  Asfiociation  of  Cincinnati,  April,  I84C. 

Life  of  Thomas  I'osiry,  M^jur-Geueral  and  Governor  of  Indiana  (Sparks*s  Americaa  Biografkj, 

2d  M-ries,  IX,  359,  40^). 
Romance  of  Western  History.    Cincinnati,  1857. 


THE  INDIAN  MAID'S  DE.VTH  SONG. 

TuE  valiant  Dakota  has  gone  to  the  chase. 
The  pride  of  my  heart,  and  the  hope  of  his 

ra<*e; 
Ills  arrows  are  sharp,  and  his  eye  it  is  true, 


I  sing  my  death  dirge;  for  the  gimve  I 

pn*pare ; 
And  i^oon  nhall  my  true  lover  foUow  me 

there. 


;  His  hejirt  is  so  true,  that  in  death  he  shaO 

i         not 

And  swift  is  the  man*h  of  hi.-*  bin-hen  eano<';  ,,        ^  .         ,  1.1.11,       .  ,.  • 

,,  u  11         ■  1.        J  I   „  t  orpi't  the  sail  scene  of  this  blood-spnnkled 

But  suns  shall  vanish,  and  seasons  shall  '^ 


wane, 
Kre  the  hunter  shall  cb^^p  his  Winoxa 
again ! 


s|»ot; 


Hut  swift  as  the  foot  of  the  light-boundnig 
doe. 

Hell  fly  through  the  regions  of  darkneat 
Ixtlow 
Away,  you  &ke  hearted,  who  smile  to  dcj^o  joi„  hi*  Winona  in  maii«iona  of  tnilh. 
Ktrov, 


Whom*  hearts  plan  deceit,  while  your  li[)s 

utif  r  joy ; 
Winona  is  tnie  to  the  vow  >he  ha.^  maihs 
And  none  l»nt   the  hunter  >hall  win  the 

dark  maid. 


Whrrc  love  1  dooms  eternal,  with  beauty 
and  youth. 

Stem  hinsand  fals<--hearted  kinsmen,  adieu! 
I  sing  my  death  Miig,  and  my  courage  is 
true ; 


Ifr20>30.] 


JAMES   HALL. 


73 


Tis  painful  to  die — but  the  pride  of  my  race 

Forbids  me  to  pause  betvvixt  pain  and  dis- 
grace; 

The  rocks  thej  are  sharp,  and  the  preci- 
pice high — 

See, seel  how  amaiden  can  teach  ye  to  die! 


WEDDED  LOVE^  FIRST  HOME. 

TwAS  far  beyond  yon  mountains,  dear, 
we  plighted  vows  of  love ; 

The  ocean  wave  was  at  our  feet,  the  au- 
tumn sky  above ; 

The  pebbly  shore  was  covered  o'er  with 
many  a  varied  shell. 

And  on  the  billow's  curling  spray  the  sun- 
beams glittering  fell. 

The  storm  has  vexed  that  billow  ofl,  and 
oft  that  sun  has  set. 

But  plighted  love  remains  with  us,  in 
peace  and  luster  yet. 

I  wiled  thee  to  a  lonely  haunt,  that  bash- 
ful love  might  speak. 

Where  none  could  hear  what  love  revealed, 
or  see  the  crimson  cheek ; 

The  shore  was  all  deserted,  and  we  wan- 
dered there  alone. 

And  not  a  human  step  impressed  the  sand- 
beach  but  our  own. 

Thy  footsteps  all  have  vanished  from  the 
billow-beaten  strand — 

The  vows  we  breathed  remain  with  us — 
they  were  not  traced  in  sand. 

Far,  far,  we  left  the  sea-girt  shore,  endeared 

by  childhood's  dream. 
To  seek  the  humble  cot  that  smiled  by  fair 

Ohio's  stream ; 
In  vain  the  mountain  cliff  opposed,  the 

mountain  torrent  roared, 
For  love  unfurled  her  silken  wing,  and  o'er 

each  bairier  soared ; 


And  many  a  wide  domain  we  passed,  and 

many  an  ample  dome, 
But  none  so  blessed,  so  dear  to  us,  as 

wedded  love's  first  home. 

Beyond  those  mountains  now  are  all  that 

e'er  we  loved  or  knew, 
The  long  remembered  many,  and  the  dearly 

cherished  few ; 
The  home  of  her  we  value,  and  the  grave 

of  him  we  mourn. 
Are  there; — and  there  is  all  the  past  to 

which  the  heart  can  turn ; — 
But  dearer  scenes  surround  us  here,  and 

lovelier  joys  we  trace. 
For  here  is  wedded  love's  first  home — its 

hallowed  resting  place. 


CAN  YEARS  OF  SUFFERING? 

Can  years  of  suffering  be  repaid. 

By  after-years  of  bliss  ? 
When  youth  has  fied,  and  health  decayed, 

Can  man  taste  happiness? 
When  love's  bright  visions  are  no  more, 

Nor  high  ambition's  dream. 
Has  heaven  no  kindred  joy  in  store, 

To  gild  life's  parting  beam  ? 

Oh,  bright  is  youth's  propitious  hour. 

And  manhood's  joyous  prime. 
When  pleasure's  sun,  and  beauty's  flower. 

Adorn  the  march  of  time. 
But  age  has  riper,  richer  joy. 

When  hearts  prepared  for  heaven. 
Thrice  tried,  and  pure  of  all  alloy, 

Rejoice  in  sins  forgiven. 

When  lonfj-tried  love  still  twines  her  wreath 

Around  the  brow  of  age ; 
And  virtue,  the  stern  arm  of  death. 

Disarms  of  all  its  rage ; 
When  friends,  long  cherished,  still  are  true, 

When  virtuous  offspring  bloom  ; 
Then  man's  enjoyment  purest  flows. 

Though  ripening  for  the  tomb. 


WILLIAM  R.  SCHENCK. 


William  Uookks  Schknck  was  born  at  Cincinnati,  then  in  the  North-We«teni 
IVrritory,  ()cU>ber  twentieth,  1799.  He  was  the  eMest  child  of  William  C.  S<*hendk 
mill  KlixalM'th  11.  Si*hcnck.  His  father  was  associated  with  John  Cleves  Symmes  in 
tht'  imrly  mMtlenient  and  surveys  of  the  Miami  Valley,  and  resided,  after  1>HH>,  it 
Franklin,  on  the  (trt^at  Miami  river — a  village  which  he  himself  founded — and  coo- 
ihiued  to  hi*  a  leading,  influential,  and  highly  respected  citizen  of  southern  Ohio,  until 
\\%u  dratli,  which  otvurrtHl  at  Columbus,  January  twelfth,  1621,  while  in  attendance 
in  iho  L«*);i<«luUire  of  the  State  as  a  liopresentative  from  Warren  county. 

NVtUmiu  U(»i;rrs  Si'henck  had  no  advantages  of  education  except  such  as  were 
iil)oi<%hM|  by  cho  i^Munion  Hnglish  country  schools  of  tluit  early  day  in  Ohio.  He  was 
bitni^hi  up  H  nu^ri'luuit,  and  pursued  that  business  at  Franklin  until  near  the  clo^  of 
bl«  lids  \U^  ^an  married  at  Cincuinati,  Septeml>er  fourth,  1822,  to  Phebe  W. 
Unnloi.  In  IKhvuiIht,  1h;{2,  un  his  return  with  a  small  party  of  men  fixxn  an  espe> 
duioh  hi  iuiM,  in  New  M«*xico,  he  perished  on  the  prairies,  after  having  been  wounded 
III  *\\\  I'lt^HUMilvr  with  the  (  aiiuinche  Indians.  II is  sad  and  untimely  fate  was  mounEied 
Miul  (HtiumonioraliHl  In  a  fitting  elegy  by  his  companion,  Albert  S.  Pike,  the  poet  of 
AiktiMaiii,  who  in  long  yt*ant  of  intimacy  had  well  learned  to  know  and  appreciate  the 
Hill*  \\*\w  luiblo,  and  gtMiial  qualiticM  and  brilliant  talents  of  his  unfortunate  friend. 

\\  (ill  Ml'.  SclK'Uck,  litcniry  exercises  were  never  more  than  an  occasiooal  recreft* 
I  hill  llo  y^xwW  iimnv  fih(»rt  ]MM'ms.  The  best  were  contributed  to  the  CiDcinoati 
/•iti«i<y  ffiuW^ir,  in  tho  years  1824  and  1825.     They  were  never  published  in  §MJ 

liilU'iUd  litlliL 


Yet  ris«»s  still  sup<*rior  to  them  all ; 
f*lH'||»K  Thy  meaner  refuge  scorns,  and  daret  to 

I  live ; 

hi  u  iia  '     III    lh«»iighl    as    fearful   as    in  Xay,  glories  in  his  stem  philosophy. 


|i|M  |Hk«4>  |taa«S 

I  Us  \xK  io\  \u\i\i\  Ihe  (Niwanrn  antidote. 
I  lu  iti  I  lit  m«  ii|i  aisiiiiml  the  ills  of  fate, 
tt.iui  (    roiiiiiie\   li^iwtis  a  friend's   de- 

|ti.i\  ii\, 
\  lilt  U(  <^  lulie,  II  e«>uiitr)*ii  Iuim*  ingrati- 

lintr, 

And  nil  ihe  iitiM'iie>i  iluil  man  inherits. 


His  Im>|m'  of  heaven,  is  his  prop  on  earth; 

lie  feels  his  >pint  rise  as  ills  assail  him; 

He  nobly  live?*— or  dies  to  live  forever. 

The  other,  like  the  iKX>r  despairing  mari- 
ner, 

Buffet.H  awhile  the  angry  billows'  roar; 

But  wh«*n  a  %ia\e,  more  boisterous  than  tke 

rest. 


(74) 


1820-30.] 


WILLIAM    R.  SCHENCK. 


75 


Soils  on  his  head,  his  firmness  sinks  be- 
neath it ; 
And,  losing  confidence,  he  loseth  strength, 
Abandons  hope,  and  sinks  into  eternity. 
Such  is  the  fear  a  suicide  betrajs — 
Is  madlj   brave,  but    braving  heaven's 
a  coward. 


THE  MUSQUrrOES. 

AvAUNT,  ye  crew  of  butch'ring  devils, 
Ye  worst  of  all  the  summer  s  evils ; 
Leave,  leave  your  fell,  blood-thirsty  revels, 

And  me  in  peace. 

Or  cease  ye,  foul,  tormenting  crew. 
Your  nightly  song,  your  cursed  tattoo ; 
Worse  than  the  Shawnee's  dread  halloo, 

Your  war-song  cease. 

Drive  home  your  blood-ensanguined  stings, 
Bathe  in  the  red  tide's  crimson  springs ; 
Bat  curse  the  noise  your  banquet  brings, 

Let  that  subside. 

I  hold  but  lightly  all  your  stinging, 
Though  blood  from  every  pore  were  spring- 
ing; 
Td  murmur  not,  but  oh,  your  singing 

I  can't  abide. 

Then  cease,  ere  I'm  to  madness  driven ; 
I've  blood  enough  to  spare,  thank  heaven ! 
And  what  I  have's  as  freely  given, 

As  quaffed  by  you. 

** Music  hath  charms"  for  many  a  mind, 
Than  mine  more  music'ly  inclined. 
Then  sing  for  them,  pray  be  so  kind. 

And  bleed  me— -do! 


Do  this — or  by  my  many  wrongs, 

I'll  clog  your  boist'rous,  brawling  lungs, 

And  stop  the  concert  of  your  tongues 

With  sulph'rous  clouds. 


INDIAN  DEATH  SONG. 

FoEMEN  of  my  nation's  race. 
Warriors  oft  in  battle  tried. 
Oft  Fve  met  you  face  to  face. 
Oft  in  blood  my  hatchet  dyed. 
But  now  my  race  is  run : 
No  more  I  hurl  the  bolt  of  war ; 
No  more  I  shine  my  nation's  star. 
To  guide  their  vengeance  from  afar; 
For  now  will  Alvin's  son 
Soar  to  the  land  beyond  the  sky. 
I've  bravely  lived,  I'll  bravely  die. 

Warriors,  'midst  the  thick'ning  fight. 
Beneath  my  arm  brave  Osci  died ; 
The  hero  sunk  beneath  my  might. 
Your  nation's  boast,  your  nation's  pride, 
I  glory  in  the  deed. 
And  where  your  choicest  kinsmen  fought, 
My  choicest  vengeance  there  was  sought, 
Your  widest  ruin  there  was  wrought, 
Your  bravest  sons  did  bleed. 
The  shades  of  those  heroic  dead 
Invoke  your  vengeance  on  my  head. 

Then  higher  build  my  funeral  throne. 
Then  higher  raise  the  raging  fiame. 
And  not  one  murmur,  not  one  groan 
Shall  sully  Orvan's  deathless  feme. 
Think  how  once  burst  my  warrior  flood ; 
Remember  how  before  me  sank 
Your  bravest  friends,  your  failing  ranks ; 
Remember  how  my  hatchet  drank 
Your  warmest,  choicest  blood, 
I  scorn  your  power;  I  scorn  your  wrath; 
I  curse  you  with  my  latest  breath. 


76 


WILLIAM    R.  SCHENCK. 


[1«S0-3«L 


FRIENaSUIP,  LOVE  AND  BEALTY. 

Since  first  I  have  reasoned  and  felt  as  a  man, 
I  liave  loved  all  that'n  lovely,  I  love  all  I  i^an ; 
I've  been  jilted  and  smiled  on,  by  turns,  as 

a  lover, 
And  yet  my  wild  race  of  mad  folly's  not 

over: 
From  pleasure  to  pleasure  still  heedless 

I  rove, 
For,  oh !  what  is  life  without  Beauty 

and  Love  ? 

Misanthropes,  of  envy  and  hatred  the  slaves, 
Preach  tliat  women  are  fickle,  and  men  are 

all  knaves ; 
But  while  I've  a  friend  that  will  bravely 

and  nobly 
Stand  firm  to  my  cause,  and  a  girl  tliat  i^^ 

lovely, 
From  pleasure  to  pleasure  still  heedless 

I'll  rove. 
For,  oh !  what  is  life  without  Friendship 

and  Love? 

Though  Eliza's  light  vows  were  as  fickle 
as  air. 

And  when  absent  from  Anna,  my  love  was 
forgot. 

Should  the  arts  or  the  falsehoods  of  thofte 
IH*rjun»d  fair 

The  whole  female  page  with  inconstancy 
blot? 
No !  ]M*ri.4h  tlie  thought  that  would  law- 
less thus  rove. 
Fur,  oh !  what  is  life  without  Beauty  and 
Love? 

Tliis  life's  but  a  shadow  on  Time's  ni;;f;«Ml 

CO 

face. 

And  those  hours  how  short  that  with  plea- 
sure w«»  trace ; 

Then  youth  is  the  season  for  love  and  do- 
lifrht, 

Krc  old  ago  gathers  o*er  us  the  dark  cloud 
of  night ; 


So  while  youth  lasts,  with  beaatj  and 

friendship  I'll  rove, 
For,  oh !  wliat  is  life  without  Friendship 

and  Love? 


WOMAN. 

Yes,  rail  against  woman — ^hcr  arts  and  her 
wiles, 
Her  treachery,  falsehood,  and  snares; 
Then  find  if  you  can,  a  balm  like  her 

smiles, 
A  charm  like  her  love  that  the  bosom  be- 
guiles. 
Of  its  deepest  and  deadliest 


What   were   num — lordly  man,  nnUesi'd 
and  alone. 
Condemned  o'er  life's  desert  to  rove ; 
What  would  urge  him  to  glory,  to  honor, 

renown. 
If  beauty's  bright  glance  on  his  pathway 
ne'er  shone, 
Nor  blesn'd  by  her  smiles  and  her  lore. 

Ah  yes,  lovely  sex !  'tis  to  yoa  that  we 

owe 
All  the  ble?i!iings  this  world  can  impsfti 
All  tiie  ph':f*ures  tliat  love  and  ooDtent- 

mcnt  Im'^Iow, 
All  that  gives  to  existence  a  chamn  hen 

lu'loW, 

All  the  joys  that  are  dear  to  the  heart 

And  [H'rish  th<*  wn*trh,  unmanly  and  hase, 
Un<li>tiii;iui<ih<'d  in  life,  and  unhonorvd 
in  drath 
(^lay  his  name  be  forever  deep  marked 

with  di*gnu*i\ 
Till  faiiir  ^hall  witli  horror  the  clmractert 
tnu'i*). 
Who  would  tanii.'*!!  thy  name  with  his 
sland^-nnjs  bn.*ath. 


SARAH  LOUISA  P.  SMITH. 


Sarah  Louisa  P.  Hickman  was  bom  at  Detroit,  on  the  thirtieth  of  June,  1811. 
Her  grandfather,  Major-General  Hull,  was  then  Governor  of  Michigan.  While  a 
mere  child  Miss  Hickman  wrote  verses  which  were  much  admired.  Having  accom- 
panied her  mother  to  the  home  of  her  family  in  Newton,  Massachusetts,  she  was 
liberallj  educated.  In  her  eighteenth  year  she  was  married  to  Samuel  Jenks  Smith,  then 
editor  of  a  periodical  in  Providence.  Rhode  Island.  Mr.  Smith  published  his  wife's 
poems,  in  a  duodecimo  volume  of  250  pages,  the  same  year  of  their  marriage.  In 
1829  Mr.  Smith  moved  to  Cincinnati.  There  Mrs.  Smith  wrote  poems  for  the  Cin- 
cinnati Gazette^  of  peculiar  gracefulness,  upon  a  vaiiety  of  themes ;  but  her  health 
rapidly  declined,  and  she  died,  on  a  visit  to  New  York  City,  February  twelfth,  1832, 
in  the  twenty-first  year  of  her  age. 

Her  husband  was  afterward  for  several  years  connected  with  the  New  York  Press. 
He  died  while  on  a  voyage  to  Europe,  in  1842. 


WHITE  ROSES. 

Thet  were  gathered  for  a  bridal : 

I  knew  it  by  their  hue — 
Fair  as  the  sunmier  moonlight 

Upon  the  sleeping  dew. 
From  their  fair  and  fairy  sisters 

They  were  borne,  without  a  sigh. 
For  one  remembered  evening. 

To  blossom  and  to  die. 

They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal, 

And  fastened  in  a  wreath  ; 
But  purer  were  the  roses 

Than  the  heart  that  lay  beneath ; 
Yet  the  beaming  eye  was  lovely. 

And  the  coral  lip  was  fair. 
And  the  gazer  looked  and  asked  not 

For  the  secret  hidden  there. 

They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal. 
Where  a  thousand  torches  glistened. 

When  the  holy  words  were  spoken. 
And  the  false  and  faithless  listened, 


And  answered  to  the  vow. 

Which  another  heart  had  taken : 

Yet  he  was  present  then — 
The  once  loved,  the  forsaken  I 

They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal, 

And  now,  now  they  are  dying. 
And  young  Love  at  the  altar 

Of  broken  faith  is  sighing. 
Their  summer  life  was  stainless. 

And  not  like  hers  who  wore  them : 
They  are  faded,  and  the  farewell 

Of  beauty  lingers  o'er  them  I 


THE  OHIO. 

The  moonlight  sleeps  upon  thy  shores. 

Fair  river  of  the  west ! 
And  the  soft  sound  of  dipping  oars 

Just  breaks  thy  evening  rest 


(77) 


7fi 


PARAH   LOUISA   P.   SMITH. 


[Itt0-9B. 


Full  many  a  )>ark  its  ^ilve^  path 

Is  tnioinf;  oVr  thy  tide ; 
And  list,  the  sound  of  Mtif^  and  laugh 

Floats  onward,  wlic»n»  th«  y  glide. 
Thcy*re  from  light  hearts,  tliose  sounds 
so  gay, 

Wha*ie  home  and  hopes  arc  here. 
But  one,  whose  home  is  far  away, 

Their  music  fails  to  cheer. 

The  woods  of  Imliana  frown 

Along  the  distant  shore. 
And  send  their  deep,  black  sliadows  down 

Upon  the  glassy  floor ; 
Many  a  tree  is  blooming  thrre — 

AVild-flowers  o*erspn*ail  tlit?  ground. 
And  thousand  vines  of  foIiag<*  mn* 

The  trunks  are  wn^ath'd  an)un<l. 
But  though  the  summer  n)be  is  giiy 

On  ever}'  hill  and  tn*e. 
The  gray  woo<ls  rising  far  away. 

Are  fairer  still  to  me. 

Yon  cloudless  moon  to-night  looks  down 

U|K>n  no  kivelier  sight, 
Than  the  river  winding  proudly  on — 

Yet  beautiful,  in  might ; 
Onward  still  to  the  mi;;htv  west, 

Wh«»n»  the  prairie  wastw  unfold, 
Wlit»re  the  Imlian  chiethui  went  to  rust 

As  his  hist  war-signal  rolled. 
No— never  an^hed  the  blue  skies  o'rr 

A  wave  mon»  fair  ami  free — 
Jiut  the  itrtam  around  my  nutth^rtt  do**r 

Is  dearer  far  to  me. 


TO  THK  ONTK  LOVKD. 

Am>  thoti  c:inst  wrar  a  bn»\v  of  niirfh, 

Tl»«'  j;::*^'*-.!  -till  at  pl«':i^iin*'N  <<:hriiM*. 
An-l  \\ii\ii  iTin'^t  -iniN*  on  :i1l  th«»  rartli, 

Aiitl  ni.ik**  it**  liirlit  and  inn-ii*  tliin«' ! 
TIm'  wind's  that  •-w»*i'j»  tin*  rli-ar  blui*  srjw, 

]»rin;^  ji.Tf'inii'-  fp»ni  th*-  i:lMrinii<  land, 
AVlit  n-  thou  art  *till  tin*  g:iy,  tin*  fn-e, 

\Vh«»re  all  thv  vows  wi-n*  tra<'e<l  on  sand. 


The  stars  are  burning  brightly  yet 
Above  the  wood,  whoee  waving  boughs 

Were  haqw,  wherein  the  night  winds  met 
To  blend  their  music  with  those  towi. 

Tliou  hast  a  heart  which  yet  will  wake. 

When  all  this  splendid  dream  is  o'er, 
Wliich  yet  will  sadly  sigh  to  make 

Its  home  on  the  deserted  shore. 
But  the  light  bark  that's  wandered  fiut 

On  oc*(*an's  |>ath,  when  skie«  were  fiur. 
In  vain  would  turn  when  ckwdt  o'erctit- 

Alone  it  meets  the  tempest  there. 
And  for  a  thing  so  young,  so  fruJ^ 

And  yet  «o  beautiful  as  thou, 
*Twould  need  but  one  chili  aotumn  gale 

To  waste  the  wiki  iiowen  on  tfaj  brav. 

I  met  tlu'c  once  within  the  hall, 

Thtf  festal  hall,  where  music  flows, 
And  crowds  were  thronging  at  the  caD, 

As  winds  wait  on  a  summer  rose. 
Still  didst  thou  seem  the  soul  of  all 

Tliafs  holiest,  in  thought^  on  earth, 
Like  dreams  we  have  when  UKMXibeaiB 
fall 

Tlin>iigh  summer  Iraves  upon  the  eartl 
K*<'n  tlicn,  in  all  thy  bc*auty's  power, 

I  watchM  thy  brilliant  bloom  depart; 
Thv  thou;:hts  were  on  a  vanish'd  hoar— 

Thine  rye  on  him  who  read  thj  heart! 

I  would  not  have  tliat  fettered  heart. 

For  all  thy  iNMiuty  in  its  spring  I 
I  wiMiM  not  Imve  thv  soul  of  art 

To  Ih*.  likt'  tln^',  a  ioilowM  thing! 
Y<'t  <io  I  gri«'v«*  to  think  that  thou— 

S<)  d»*i  ply  ilt-ar  in  m4im«*nts  fled, 
H:i-l  twinM  a  wnath  amund  thv  hrrwr, 

Wlio-c    wfiLdit     will    HMin    be   thai  c 
lfa«l ; 
And,  lik<'  tin-  «-<ind  rliapli't  iMmnd 

l*{H»n  th'*  C'hriMian  maidi-n'**  brow, 
Slifiiiliii;;  ito  {MM^moii-  bn-ath  anmnd. 

Bid  all  that^  fair  lN>nfath  it  how. 


ELIJAH  P.   LOVEJOY. 


lH  Parish  Lovejoy  wa%  born  at  Albion,  Maine,  November  ninth,  1802. 
er,  Daniel  Lovejoy,  was  a  Presbyterian  preacher.  Elijah  was  given  a  liberal 
n.     He  graduated  at  Waterville  CJollege  in  September,  1826,  and  spoke  a 

"The  Inspiration  of  the  Muse." 

27  Mr.  Lovejoy  determined  to  cast  his  lot  for  life  in  the  great  West  He  went 
>uis  and  established  a  schooL  He  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  newspa- 
l  soon  became  known  as  a  vigorous  writer.  A  poem,  "  My  Mother,"  published 
L  Louis  RepuUican  in  1828,  was  much  admired.  In  1829  Mr.  Lovejoy  be- 
5  editor  of  a  political  paper.  He  advocated  the  claims  of  Henry  Clay  as  a 
3  for  President  of  the  United  States,  and  was  making  a  favorable  impression, 
mest  and  skillful  political  writer,  when,  in  1832,  a  change  in  his  religious  views 
im  to  abandon  political  interests.  Having  determined  to  become  a  preacher, 
to  Princeton,  New  Jersey,  and  studied  theology.  He  was  licensed  to  preach 
delphia,  in  the  summer  of  1833,  and  before  winter  of  the  same  year,  had 
.  religious  paper  at  St  Louis,  which  he  called  The  Observer.  He  was  a  vigor- 
tcr  and  a  plain-spoken  writer,  and  having  repeatedly  expressed  himself  against 
perceived  to  be  the  wrongs  of  slavery,  was  compelled,  by  threats  of  mob  vio- 

remove  his  paper,  in  July,  1836,  to  Alton,  Illinois.  The  enmity  which  had 
nted  at  St  Louis  pursued  him,  and  in  less  than  a  year  mobs  broke  three 
He  procured  a  fourth  one,  and  was  preparing  to  set  it  up  in  his  office,  when 
t  attack,  by  an  excited  mob,  was  made  upon  the  building.  Shots  were  ex- 
between  the  mob  and  a  few  friends  of  the  liberty  of  the  press,  who  were 
led  to  defend  it  When,  as  it  was  supposed,  the  mob  had  retired,  Mr.  Lovejoy 
the  door  to  reconnoiter.  He  was  fired  upon  and  received  five  balls — ^three 
his  breast,  and  caused  his  death  in  a  few  minutes.  The  building  was  then  en- 
i  the  press  broken  to  pieces. 

•ovejoy  left  a  wife — Celia  Ann  French,  to  whom  he  was  married  at  St  Charles, 
,  in  1835 — ^and  one  son. 

facts  are  obtained  from  a  memoir  prepared  by  bis  brothers,  Joseph  C.  and 
ovejoy ;  published  by  John  S.  Taylor,  at  New  York,  in  1838.  John  Quincy 
vrote  an  introduction  for  it,  in  which  he  dwelt  with  spirit  upon  the  fact  that 
lents  of  Mr.  Lovejoy's  death  had  inspired  an  interest  in  his  life  and  character 
ould  not  be  temporary. 

Lovejoy  is  now  a  member  of  Congress  from  Illinois.  He  is  distinguished  as 
ir  orator. 

(79) 


MY  MOTHER. 

TiiKRE  is  a  fire  that  bumfl  on  earth, 

A  pure  aiid  holy  flame ; 
It  cnme  to  men  from  heavenly  birth, 

And  still  it  is  the  same, 
As  wh(*n  it  bumed  the  chords  along 
That  txire  the  iirst-born  siomph's  i^ong ; 
Sw<'et  as  the  hymn  of  f^ratitude 
Tliat  swelled   to  heaven   when   'all   was 

poo<l:* 
No  passion  in  the  choirs  alM>ve 
Is  purer  than  a  mother^s  love ! 

My  mother  I  how  that  name  endear<s 
Thnmgh  3Iemory*6  griefs,  and   SorrowV 

t«*«rs ! 
I  see  \\ivo  now,  as  I  have  seen, 

With  thy  young  boy  lM*side  thee — 
Thou  didst  not  know,  nor  ifiuidst  tliou  deem 

The  ills  that  would  lK*tide  me ; 
For  sorrow  then  had  diinm(*d  that  eve, 
Wliirli  beamed  with  only  ei'stiiey  I 

Ah  !  life  was  then  a  joyous  thing, 
AikI  time  l)ore  pleasure  on  its  wing. 
I  low  buoyant  did  the  minutes  move, 
For  1  W2L4  ho(>e  and  thou  wert  love. 
Bt'ncatli  thy  smiles  I  closed  th«*  <ljiy, 
And  met  th<'m  at  the  moniing  ray ; 
My  infant  heart  was  full  of  gh*e. 
And  ev«*rv  ehonl  stniek  hannonv. 
And  oftfu  jis  \\wTt*  wonlil  b«Mide 

S<»in('  little  griefs  my  heart  to  gall, 
I  lM»re  them  to  mv  mi>tlHT*s  >ii|e. 

And  one  kind  kiss  dis{N'lif'd  them  all. 

And  I  have  knelt  with  thee — when  non<i 

Were  nrar  but  thou  and  I — 
In  tn'iiililing  awe  iH^fon*  the  throne 

Of  nuTi-v  in  the  >kv ; 
And  \^]ieii  tliy  nielti^l  heart  was  jioun'd 
1»ci(»iv  thi'  Ufinir  ilitiii  adoii'ii, 
I  low  holy  wa-*  that  prayer  of  thine. 
Fit  utVirinj  lor  a  heavenly  ^il^ine— 


Not  for  thyself  a  wish — not  one — 
But  smile  upon,  Lord,  bless  mj  eon ! 
And  I  have  risen  and  gone  mj  way, 

And  seemed  to  Ivive  forgot; 
Yet  oil  my  wandering  thoughts  would  itnj 

Back  to  that  hallowed  »pot; 
While  feelings  new  and  undefined 
Would  erowd  ui*on  my  laboring  mind. 

0  days  of  iimoc<*nce  and  peace ! 

O  ill  exchanged  for  manhuodV  years ! 
When  mirth  that  sprang   from  youtkfol 
bliss, 

Ls  drowned  beneath  misfortnneV  tears. 
My  heart  has  since  In^'U  sadlj  worn, 
While  wave  on  wave  has  o'er  it  borne ; 
And  f(*elings  once  all  fresh  and  green, 
Are  now  as  though  they  ne*er  had  been. 
And  lIo{N\  that  bright  and  buoyant  thin^ 
KVn  liofH*  has  lent  desfiair  its  wing. 
And  sits  des{Kiiled  within  my  breast, 
A  timid,  torturing,  trembling  guest ! 

1  dun'  not  l(M»k  u|M»n  the  past, 
I  can*  not  for  the  future  oast. 
Yet  o*er  this  darkness  of  the  soul 

There  c<»mes  one  cheering  beam, 
Pun*,  warm,  and  bright,  of  rapture  fall 

As  angel  visits  ^et•m — 
A  motiierV  love,  a  mother's  care. 
My  aching  lieart.  then-'s  comtbrt  there! 

It  i^  a-*  if  a  lov«'lv  n^se 
Shtmld  l)l(K»m  amid  the  icv  waste: 

For  while  the   h« 'art's  life-streams  ait 

Its  fnignuKi*  tM'r  it  still  is  cast. 

Wear\*  an<l  woni.  mv  be<l  I've  shared 

With  ^if'k^e>^  and  with  |)ain. 
Nor  one.  of  all  who  saw  me,  cared 

If  e'er  I  ni*e  a;.Min. 
n«-edle^«  anil  qiiii'k,  they  parsed  ak)ng, 
With  noi«y  miriii  and  ribald  M>ng, 
And  not  a  IimmiI  niir-irftehcd  to  give 
A  ci»rilial  that  ^houM  l«id  me  live. 
And  wimian.  tixi.  that  niir^e  of  easei 
M:ifle  up  of  Vt\M  :i:i<l  :«ympathies, 


0.] 


ELIJAH  P.  LOVEJOY. 


81 


Oman,  she — she  passed  me  by, 
cold,  averted,  careless  eye; 
eigned  to  ask,  nor  seemed  to  care 
ith  and  I  were  struggling  there ! 
hen  I've  thought,  tcaAfeU  it,  too, — 
other  is  not  such  as  jou ! 
nrould  she  sit  beside  mj  bed, 
lillow  up  my  aching  head, 
hen,  in  accents  true  as  mild, 
Id  I  were  suff'ring  for  thee,  child ! " 
ry  to  soothe  my  griefs  away, 
ook  e'en  more  than  she  could  say; 
tress  her  cheek  to  mine,  nor  fear, 
;h  plague  or  fever  wantoned  there ; 
ratch  through  weary  nights  and  lone, 
eem  &tigue  could  be  her  own. 
r,  perchance,  I  slept,  the  last 
her  eyes  were  on  me  cast ; 
rhen  I  woke,  'twould  be  to  meet 
une  kind,  anxious  glance,  so  sweet, 

0  endearing,  that  it  seemed 
»m  a  seraph's  eye  it  beamed. 

other !  I  am  far  away 

m  home,  and  love,  and  thee  ; 

stranger  hands  may  heap  the  clay 

it  soon  may  cover  me ; 

e  shall  meet — ^perhaps  not  here, 

1  yon  shining  azure  sphere ; 

f  there's  aught  assures  me  more, 

;  yet  my  spirit  fly, 

heaven  has  mercy  still  in  store, 

'  such  a  wretch  as  I, 

lat  a  heart  so  good  as  thine, 

bleed — ^must  burst,  along  with  mine. 

ife  is  short,  at  best,  and  time 
St  soon  prepare  the  tomb ; 
here  is  sure  a  happier  clime, 
rond  this  world  of  gloom, 
hould  it  be  my  happy  lot, 
er  a  life  of  care  and  pain, 
madness  spent,  or  spent  in  vain — 

where  sighs  and  sin  is  not, 
rill  make  the  half  my  heaven  to  be, 

mother,  evermore  with  thee  I 


THE  WANDERER.* 

The  sun  was  set,  and  that  dim  twilight 
hour. 
Which  shrouds  in  gloom  whate'er  it  looks 
upon, 
Was  o'er  the  world ;  stem  desolation  lay 
In  her  own  ruins ;  every  mark  was  gone, 
Save    one    tall,   beetling    monumental 
stone.  , 

Amid  a  sandy  waste,  it  reared  its  head, 
All  scathed  and  blackened  by  the  lighf>> 
ning's  shock, 
That  many  a  scar  and  many  a  seam  had 
made. 
E'en  to  its  base ;  and  there,  with  thun- 
dering stroke, 
Erie's  wild  waves  in  ceaseless  clamors 
broke. 

And  on  its  rifled  top  the  wanderer  stood, 
And  bared  his  head  beneath  the  cold 
night  air. 
And  wistfully  he  gazed  upon  the  flood. 
It  were  a  boon  to  him  (so  thought  he 

there) 
Beneath  that  tide  to  rest  from  every  care. 

And  might  it  be,  and  not  his  own  rash  hand 

Have  done  the  deed  (for  yet  he  dared 

not  brave, 

All  reckless  as  he  was,  the  high  command. 

Do  thou  thyself  no  harm),  adown  the 

wave. 
And  in  the  tall  lake-grass  that  night,  had 
been  his  grave. 

Oh !  you  may  tell  of  that  philosophy. 
Which  steels  the  heart  'gainst  every  bitter 
woe: 
Tis  not  in  nature,  and  it  cannot  be ; 
You  cannot  rend  young  hearts,  and  not 

a  throe 
Of  agony,  tell  how  they  feel  the  blow. 

•  Written  on  the  thore  of  Ltke  Erie. 


6 


ht 


ELIJAH   P.   LOVEJOY. 


V 


lie  was  a  lone  and  solitary  one, 

With  none  to  love,  and  pity  he  diMlained : 
Ills  hopes  were  wrecked,  and  all  his  joys 
were  gone ; 
But  his  dark  eye  blanched  not ;  his  pride 

remained ; 
And  if  he  deeply  felt,  to  none  had  he 
complained. 

Of  all  that  knew  him,  few  but  judged  him 
wrong: 
He  was  of  silent  and  unsocial  mood : 
Unloving  and  unloved  he  passed  along : 
His  chosen  path  with  steadfast  aim  he 

trod. 
Nor  asked   nor  wished  applause,  save 
only  of  his  God. 

Oh !  how  preposterous  'tis  for  man  to  claim 
In  his  own  strength  to  chain  the  human 
soul! 
Go,  first,  and  learn  the  elements  to  tame, 
Ere  you  would  exercise  your  vain  control 
0*er  that  which  pants  and  strives  for  an 
immortal  goal 

Yet  oft  a  young  and  generous  heart  ha<  been 
By  cruel  keepers  trampled  on  and  torn ; 
And  all  the  worst  and  wildest  passions  in 
The  human  breast  have  roused  them- 
selves in  scorn. 
That  else  had  dormant  slept,  or  never 
had  been  bom. 

Take  heed,  ye  guardians  of  the  youthful 

mind, 
.  That  facile  grows  beneath  your  kindly 

care; 
Tis  of  elastic  mould,  and,  if  confined 


With  too  much  stress, '^shooU  mad 

its  sphere,** 
Unswayed  by  love,  and  nnrestnu 

fear. 

Oh  !  'tis  a  fearful,  blasting  aigfai  to 
The  soul  in  ruins,  withered,  riv< 
wrung. 
And  doomed  to  spend  its  immortalit 
Darkling  and  hopeless,  where  « 

has  flung 
Her  curtains  o'er  the  fevet  to  w 
fondly  dung. 

So  thought  the  wanderer:  ao^  peril 
felt: 
(But  this  is  onrevealed):  now  1 
come 
To  the  far  woods,  and  there  in  aleoc 
On  the  sharp  fiint-etone,  in  mjleaa 
And  fervently  he  prayed  to  find  a 
tomb. 

Weep  not  for  him :  he  asks  no  sym 
From  human  hearts  or  eyes ;  alool 

On  his  own  spirit  let  him  rest,  and  1 
By  all  his  kind  forgotten  and  nnl 
And  wild  winds  mingle  with  hit 
groan. 

And  in  the  desert  let  him  lie  and  sli 

In  that  sweet  rest  exhausted  nature 

Oh  I  make  his  clay-cold  mansion  da 

deep, 

While  the  tall  trees  their  somber 

wave. 
And  drop  it  blighted  on  the 
grave. 


mm^ 


JOHN  FINLEY. 


IN  FiNLBT,  anthor  of  ^The  HooBier^s  Nestf* — a  poem  which,  without  his  name, 
een  published  in  a  majority  of  the  newspapers  of  America,  and  has  been  often 
i  in  England  as  a  graphic  specimen  of  backwoods  literature— -is  a  native  of  Yir- 
He  was  bom  at  Brownsburg,  Rockbridge  countj,  on  the  eleventh  of  January, 
His  father  was  a  merchant.  John  was  sent  to  a  country  school  and  there 
id  ''to  read  and  write,  and  cipher  as  far  as  the  rule  of  three."  He  says  ten 
were  required  to  teach  him  that  much.  He  served  an  apprenticeship  as  a 
r  and  currier,  and  then  came  west  He  was  married  at  Yellow  Springs,  Ohio, 
26^  to  Bachel  H.  Knott.  He  was  then  a  citizen  of  Richmond,  Wayne  county, 
na.  His  wife  died  and  he  was  married  a  second  time,  at  Indianapolis,  April 
,  1880,  to  Julia  Hanson. 

at  Mr.  Finley  chose  wisely  when  he  selected  Richmond  as  lus  home  is  evinced 
inj  tokens  of  public  confidence  which  his  fellow-dtizens  have  manifested.  He 
een  a  member  of  the  Indiana  Legislature  during  three  years,  Enrolling  Clerk  of 
kate  Senate  three  years,  Clerk  of  the  Wayne  county  courts  seven  years,  and 
r  of  Richmond  eight  years — an  office  he  now  holds.  He  was  also  for  several 
editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Richmond  Palladium, 

he  Hoosier's  Nest"  formed  a  part  of  a  New  Year's  Address,  written  in  1830,  for 
idioM^folis  JoumaL  The  lines  '^To  Indiana,"  hereafter  quoted,  were  also  a 
»f  that  address.    Its  opening  stanza  expresses  happily  the  poet's  characteristics : 

Untaught  the  language  of  the  schools, 
Nor  versed  in  soientific  rales, 
The  hamble  bard  may  not  presume 
The  Literati  to  illume, 
Or  clasric  cadences  indite, 
Attuned  "  to  tickle  ears  polite ;'' 
Contented  if  his  strains  may  pass 
The  ordeal  of  the  common  mass. 
And  raise  an  anti-critic  smile, 
The  hour  of  labor  to  beguile. 

•.  Finley*8  "Bachelor's  Hall"  has  been  very  widely  circulated  in  England,  as 
as  in  America,  with  Thomas  Moore's  name  to  it  In  a  note  to  the  editor  he 
"I  have  written  nothing  for  publication  for  many  years,  and  am  more  than  half 
aed  of  the  notoriety  my  scribblings  have  elicited,  when  I  could  have  written 
1  better.  *  •  •  I  have  prepared  my  manuscripts  for  a  volume — *The  Hoosicr's 
and  other  Poems' — ^but  as  I  have  not  preserved  more  than  about  enough  pieces 
ike  a  book  of  one  hundred  pages,  the  presumption  is  against  my  ever  publishing 

ok  form." 

(83) 


84 


JOHN   FINLEY. 


[1 


TO  INDIANA. 

Blest  Indiana !  in  thy  soil 
Are  found  the  sure  rewards  of  toil. 
Where  harvest,  purity  and  worth 
Muj  make  a  paradLte  on  earth. 
With  feelings  proud  we  contemplate 
The  rising  glory  of  our  State ; 
Nor  take  offense  by  application 
Of  itfl  good-natured  appellation. 
Our  liardy  yeomanry  can  smile 
At  tourists  of  "the  sea-girt  Isle," 
Or  wits  who  traveled  at  the  gallop. 
Like  Basil  Hall,  or  Mrs.  TroUope. 
Tis  true  among  the  crowds  that  ixMHn, 
To  seek  for  fortune  or  a  home, 
It  happens  that  we  often  find 
Empiricism  of  every  kind. 

A  strutting  fop,  who  boasts  of  knowledge, 
Acquired  at  ^ome  far  eastern  college. 
Expects  to  take  us  by  surprise, 
And  dazzle  our  astonished  eyes. 
He  boasts  of  learning,  skill  and  talents, 
Which  in  the  scale,  would  Andes  bakmce. 
Cute  widening  swaths  from  day  to  day, 
And  in  a  month  he  runs  away. 

Not  thus  the  honest  son  of  toil. 
Who  settles  here  to  till  the  soil. 
And  with  intentions  just  and  good, 
Acquires  an  ample  livelihood ; 
He  is  (and  not  the  Uttle-great) 
The  bone  and  sinew  of  the  State. 
With  six-horse  team  to  one-horse  cart. 
We  hail  them  here  from  every  part. 
And  some  you'll  see.  Mans  shoes  or  socks 

on, 
>\1th  snake^le  and  a  yoke  of  oxen : 
Others  with  pack-horse,  dog  and  rifle. 
Make  emigration  quite  a  trifle. 

The  emigrant  is  soon  k)cated — 
In  Hoosier  life  initiated — 
Erects  a  cabin  in  the  woods, 
W*^herein  he  stows  his  household  goods. 


At  first,  rotmd  logs  and  clapboard 

With  puncheon  floor,  quite  carpet 

And  paper  windows,  <nled  and  ne 

His  edifice  is  then  complete, 

When  four  day  balls,  in  form  of 
met. 

Adorn  his  wooden  chimney*!  mm 

Ensconced  in  this,  lei  those  who  i 

Find  out  a  truly  happier  man. 

The  little  youngsters  rise  mroond  '. 

So  numerous  they  quite  astound  1 

Each  with  an  ax  or  wheel  in  hani 

And  instinct  to  subdue  the  land. 

Ere  long  the  cabin  disappears, 
A  spacious  mansion  next  he  rean 
His  fields  seem  widening  by  eteal 
An  index  of  increasing  wealth ; 
And  when  the  hives  of  Hooeieri  4 
To  each  is  given  a  noble  hrvau 
These  are  the  seedlings  of  the  8l 
The  stamina  to  make  the  greaL 


THE  HOOSIER>S  NEST. 

Fm  told,  in  riding  somewhere  Wi 
A  stranger  found  a  Hoosier^s  nett 
In  other  words,  a  Buckeye  cabin, 
Just  big  enough  to  hold  Queen  II 
In  situation  low,  but  airy. 
Was  on  the  borders  of  a  prairie; 
And  fearing  he  might  be  benighU 
He  haiU*d  the  house,  and  then  all 
Tlie  Hoosier  met  him  at  the  door, 
Their  (»alutations  soon  were  o*er. 
He  took  the  stranger's  home  asidi 
And  to  a  sturdy  sa(>pling  tied ; 
Then,  having  stripped  the  saddle 
He  ft'd  him  in  a  sugar-trough 

The  stranger  stooped  to  enter  in. 
The  entrance  ckwing  with  a  pin ; 
And  manifested  strung  desire 
To  sit  d4)wn  by  the  log-heap  fire, 
Where  half  a  dozen  Hooneroou^ 
With  mush  and  milk,  tin-cnpsand  i 


1890-40.] 


JOHN  FINLEY. 


86 


White  beads,  bare  feet  and  dirtj  faces, 
Seemed  much  inclined  to  keep   their 

pkcea; 
But  madam,  anxious  to  display 
Her  rough  but  undisputed  swaj, 
Her  offspring  to  the  ladder  led, 
And  cuffed  the  youngsters  up  to  bed. 

Invited  shortly  to  partake. 
Of  veniscm,  milk,  and  johnny-cake, 
The  stranger  made  a  hearty  meal, 
And  glances  round  the  room  would  steal 
One  side  was  lined  with  divers  garments^ 
The  other,  spread  with  skins  of  varmints ; 
Dried  pumpkins  overhead  were  strung, 
Where  venison  hams  in  plenty  hung ; 
Two  rifles  placed  above  the  door, 
Three  dogs  lay  stretched  upon  the  floor — 
In  short,  the  domicil  was  rife 
With  specimens  of  Hoosier  life. 
The  host,  who  centered  his  affections 
On  game,  and  range  and  quarter  sections. 
Discoursed  bis  weary  guest  for  hours 
Till  Sonmus'   all-composing  powers, 
Of  sublunary  cares  berefl  'em; 
And  then  I  come  away,  and  left  'em. 


A  WIFE  WANTED. 

Te  fair  ones  attend,  I've  an  offer  to  make  ye, 

In  Hymen's  soft  bands  I  am  anxious  to 

Hve; 

For  better,  for  worse,  a  companion  I'll  take 

me, 

Provided  she  fills  the  description  I  give. 

I  neither  expect  nor  can  hope  for  perfection, 
For  that  never  yet  was  a  bachelor's  lot, 

Bat,  choosing  a  wife,  I  would  make  a  se- 
lection. 
Which  many  in  my  situation  would  not. 

I'd  have — let  me  see — ^no— I'd  not  have  a 
beauty, 
For  beautiful  women  are  apt  to  be  vain, 


Tet  with  a  small  share,  I  would  think  it  a 
duty — 
To  take  her,  be  thankful,  and  never  com- 
plain. 

Her  form  must  be  good,  without  art  to  con- 
strain it. 
And  rather  above  than  below  middle 
size; 
A  something  (it  puzzles  my  brain  to  ex- 
plain it) 
Like  eloquent  language,  must  flow  from 
her  eyes. 

She  must  be  well-bred  or  I  could  not  re- 
spect her. 
Good-natured  and  modest,  but  not  very 
coy; 
Her  mind  well-formed — ^'tis  the  purified 
nectar 
That  sweetens  the  cup  of  hymenial  joy. 

Her  home  she  must  love,  and  domestic  em- 
ployment— 
Have  practical  knowledge  of  household 
affairs; 
And  make  it  a  part  of  her  highest  enjoy- 
ment 
To  soften  my  troubles,  and  lighten  my 
cares. 

Her  age  I  would  have  at  the  least  to  be 
twenty. 
But  not  to  exceed  twenty-five  at  the 
most; 
And  girls  of  that  age  being  every  where 
plenty, 
I  hope  to  get  one  of  the  numerous  host. 

No  fortune  I  ask,  for  I've  no  predilection 
For  glitter  and  show,  or  the  pomp  of 
high  life; 
I  wish  to  be  bound  by  the  cords  of  affec- 
tion— 
And  now  I  have  drawn  you  a  sketch  of 
a  wife. 


86 


JOHN   FIN  L  BY. 


[H 


If  any  po88eAi  the  above  requisitions, 
And  wish  to  be  bound  bj  the  coi\jugal 
band. 
They  will  please  to  step  forward,  thej  know 
the  conditions;  — 
Inquire  of  the  printer,  Tm  always  at 
hand. 


BACH£LOR*S  HALL. 

(l>    IMITATIO>    or    TIE   lEISI.) 

Bachelor's  HaU !   What  a  quarc  lookin* 
place  it  is ! 
Kape  me  from  sich  aU  the  days  of  my 
life! 
Sure,  but  I  think  what  a  bumin'  disgrace  it  is, 
Niver  at  all  to  be  gettin'  a  wife. 

See  the  old   Bachelor,  gloomy  and  sad 
enough, 
Placing  his  tay-kcttle  over  the  fire ; 
Soon  it  tips  oyer — Saint  Patrick  I  hc*s  mad 
enough 
(If  he  were  present)  to  fight  wid  the 
Squire. 

Then,  like  a  hog  in  a  mortar-bed  wallowing, 

Awkward  enough,  see  him  knading  his 

dough; 

Troth !   if  the  bread  he  could  ate  widout 

swallowing, 

How  it  wouki  favor  his  palate,  you  know  I 

His  dish-cloth  is  missing — the  pigs  are  de- 
vouring it. 
In  the  pursuit  he  has  battered  his  shin ; 
A  plate  wanted    washing — Grimalkin    is 
scouring  it. 
Thunder  and  turf!  what  a  pickle  he*s  in ! 

His  meal  being  over,  the  tablets  lefl  setting 
so; 

Dishes,  take  care  of  yourselves,  if  you 

can! 
But  hunger  returns, — then  he*s  fuming  and 

fretting  so, 
Och!  Let  him  alone  for  a  baste  of  a  man ! 


Pots,  dishes,  pans,  and  sodi  gmy 
ties. 
Ashes  and  prata-skins,  kiver  the  i 
His  cupboard'!  a  storehouse  of  « 
oddities, 
Sich  as  had  niver  been  neighbofi  I 

Late  in  the  night,  then,  he  goes  i 
shiverin', 
Niver  the  bit  is  the  bed  made  at  i 
He  crapes  like  a  tarraptn  under  tl 
erin', — 
Bad  Iwk  to  the  pider  of  Bad 
Halll 


TO  VT  OLD  COAT. 

Ain>mustwe  part — mjgoodoldfl 
Ah,  me! — it  grieves  me  aorely] 

I  can  no  more  thy  tatters  mend, 
The  stitches  hold  so  pooriy. 

Thou  wast  my  father^s  wedding  ei 
And  I  have  heard  him  mentioii 

He  wore  thee,  buttoned  to  the  thr 
To  catch  the  girls'  attention  ^* 

For  then  the  martial  figure  stood 

In  highest  estimation ; 
No  wonder,  with  a  coat  so  good. 

He  raised  their  admiratioiL 

Five  times  in  fashion  thoa  hast  hi 
Twice  turned  and  often  mended 

The  like  of  thee  I  ne'er  have 
Though  now  thy  days  are 

When  first  I  wore  thee  ^  every  d 

It  brought  to  mind  my  mothers 

^  Tim,  save  that  coat,"  she  used  to 

^  Thou'lt  ne'er  get  such  another 


Yes !  I'll  preserve  thy  relics  stiD, 
And  k'am  by  that  examf^ 

My  every  duty  to  fulfill, 
Thou^  fate  shonkl  on  ma  tian 


1830-40.] 


JOHN   PINLEY. 


87 


TO  A  SKELETON.* 

Y£AR  after  year  its  course  has  sped, 
Age  after  age  has  passed  awaj ; 

And  generations,  bom  and  dead, 

Have  mingled  with  their  kindred  clay, 

Since  this  rude  pile,  to  mcm'rj  dear, 

Was  watered  by  affection's  tear. 

Perhaps  this  mouldering  human  frame. 

In  death's  dark  slumber  wrapp'd  so  long, 
Once  wore  the  "  magic  of  a  name," 

The  pride  of  chivalry  and  song ; 
And  this  once  animated  earth, 

Haply  a  noble  soul  enshrined, 
A  feeling  heart,  of  sterling  worth, 

A  genius  bright,  though  unrefined. 
Perhaps — but  let  conjecture  cease; 
Departed  spirit!  rest  in  peace. 

No  legend  tells  thy  hidden  tale, 
Thou  relic  of  a  race  unknown  ! 

Oblivion's  deepest,  darkest  vail. 
Around  thy  history  is  thrown. 

Fate,  with  an  arbitrary  hand, 

Inscribed  thy  story  on  the  sand. 

The  sun,  in  whose  diurnal  race 

Was  measured  out  thy  earthly  span. 
Exhibits  his  unaltered  face. 

And  mocks  the  brevity  of  man. 
The  hill,  the  plain,  where  thou  hast  trod. 

Are  yearly  dad  in  garments  green ; 
While  thou  hast  lain  beneath  the  sod, 

Unconscious  of  the  lovely  scene. 
Yet  poll  the  river's  limpid  waves. 

Where  thou  of  yore  wert  wont  to  drink, 
And  yet  its  rising  current  laves 

The  rock  that  overhangs  its  brink ; 
Bat  rock  and  river,  hill  and  plain. 
To  chaos  shall  return  again. 
And  e'en  the  radiant  orb  of  day. 
Like  thee,  fnul  man,  must  pass  away. 

*Li2}M  written  on  opening  a  mound  on  the  bank  of 
Whitewater  RlTer.  Richmond,  la.,  and  finding  in  it  a 
human  skeleton. 


WHAT  IS  FAITH  T 

Faith  is  the  Christian's  prop, 

Whereon  his  sorrows  lean ; 
It  is  the  substance  of  his  hope, 

His  proof  of  things  unseen ; 
It  is  the  anchor  of  the  soul, 
When  tempests  rage  and  billows  rolL 

Faith  is  the  polar  star 

That  guides  the  Christian's  bark, 
Directs  his  wanderings  from  afar, 

To  reach  the  holy  Ark ; 
It  points  his  course  where'er  he  roam, 
And  safely  leads  the  pilgrim  home. 

Faith  is  the  rainbow's  form. 
Hung  on  the  brow  of  heaven ; 

The  glory  of  the  passing  storm. 
The  pledge  of  mercy  given ; 

It  is  the  bright,  triumphal  arch. 

Through  which  the  saints  to  glory  march. 

Faith  is  the  mountain  rock. 
Whose  smnmit  towers  on  high, 

Secure  above  the  tempest's  shock. 
An  inmate  of  the  sky  ; 

Fixed  on  a  prize  of  greater  worth. 

It  views  with  scorn  the  things  of  earth. 

Faith  is  the  lightning's  flash. 

That  rends  the  solid  rock, 
From  which  tlie  living  waters  gush, 

At  every  vivid  shock ; 
While  Sinai's  awful  thunders  roll 
Around  the  self-convicted  souL 


The  faith  that  works  by  love, 

And  purifies  the  heai*t, 
A  foretaste  of  the  joys  above 

To  mortals  can  impart : 
The  Christian's  faith  is  simply  thii 
A  passport  to  immortal  bliss. 


OTWAY  CURRY. 


Or  WAT  CuRKT  was  born  Mari'h  twenty-Pix,  1804,  on  a  farm  which  has  since  prtm 
place  to  the  village  of  Greenfield,  Highland  county,  Ohio.  His  fiuher,  Jamei 
Ctiny,  was  a  man  of  great  bravery  and  |)atriotism.  In  hL«  youth  he  was«  with  some 
Virginia  troo]>is  in  a  bloody  engagement  near  the  mouth  of  the  Kanawha,  on  which 
oircurtion  he  was  severely  wounded.  During  the  greater  {mrt  of  the  JKeTolotiooaiy 
War,  he  was  an  officer  of  the  Virginia  Continental  Line ;  he  was  at  the  bailies  of 
Grmiantown  and  Monmouth,  and  was  taken  prisoner  when  the  American  armj,iiiider 
General  Lincoln,  surrenden;d  to  the  British  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  For  fiwi^ 
te<'.n  months  subsequently,  he  was  on  {Mirole  two  miles  distant  from  that  citj. 

lie  must  have  been  one  of  the  earliest  pioneers  of  Ohio.  In  1811  he  remofed 
from  Highland  county,  and  setthnl  on  Duriiy  Crct;k,  near  the  village  of  Pleasant  Val- 
ley, in  the  county  of  Union,  where  he  held  many  im{>ortant  civil  offices,  the  duties  of 
which  he  faithfully  disi*harged.  He  devoted  himself  chiefly  to  agriculture,  and  be 
was  doubtless  a  man  of  strong  common  sense,  industrious  habits,  and  honorable  char- 
acter. He  died  in  1834.  The  point's  mother  was  a  lady  of  much  inteUigenoCi  tends 
sensibilities,  and  every  social  and  domestic  virtue. 

Otway  was  a  child  ol  the  wiMemess — a  situation  not  unsuitable  to  awaken  imaginap 
tion,  to  cultivate  taste,  and  to  call  forth  the  love  of  nature  and  the  spirit  of  poeiy. 
The  approach  of  the  lM>ur,  the  rattle  of  the  snake,  the  whoop  of  the  savage,  were 
among  the  sources  of  his  early  fears.  To  observe  the  swallow  build  her  nest  in  the 
bam,  and  to  watch  the  deer  bounding  through  the  bushes,  were  among  his  early 
amusements ;  to  mark  when  the  dogwood  blossoms,  and  when  the  north  winds  blow, 
to  observe  how  nature  mingles  storm  with  sunshine,  and  draws  the  rainbow  on  the 
cloud,  were  among  his  first  lessons  in  philosophy. 

He  probably  learned  his  alphabet  in  tlie  old  family  Bible,  as  he  leaned  against  the 
jumb  of  the  cabin  fire-place.  There  was  then  no  s<'hool  law  in  Ohio ;  the  school- 
house  was  built  by  common  consent,  usually  in  the  center  of  the  clearings,  and  on  an 
eminence,  reminding  one  of  Beattie*s  lines : 

**Ah.  who  can  ti-11  how  bard  it  ii«  to  clinih 
Thi'  HUt'p  wht'n*  famoV  proud  trmplc  vhinvn  afar  I" 

It  was  constnirto<l  of  unhewn  lo^rs,  flonri'd  with  puncheons,  and  rooftnl  with  rla|H 
iHMinls ;  having  at  on**  end  a  finvpUice  capable  of  n'ceiving  a  twelve-foot  back*logi 
and  at  tin*  other  a  door,  with  a  latch  and  Mrin^ ;  it  was  coinplctt'd  by  sawing  out  a  log 
at  each  side,  inserting  in  the  o|>ening  a  light  fnitni*,  ond  stretching  o%'er  this  frame 
some  f(Md<c:ip  prij>er  well  oilinl ;  this  servt^l  tor  the  tran«missi(»n  of  light,  which  fefl 
with  melluwe<l  beams  n{Mm  a  slotting  IkmihI.  on  w  liirh  the  cnpy-l>ooks  of  advanced 
Mdiolars  were  to  be  [dai*«*fl.  In  the  t*enter  of  tlic  niom  were  benches  without  backs, 
mode  of  slabs,  by  inserting  upright  sticks  at  their  extremities. 

(  t*H  ) 


1830-40.]  OTWAY  CURRY.  89 

The  season  for  iDstruction  was  called  a  quarter,  and  usually  extended  from  Novem- 
ber to  March ;  though  short,  it  was  long  enough  to  enable  the  pupil  to  receive  all  the 
knowledge  that  the  teacher  could  spare.  The  subjects  taught  were  reading,  writing, 
spelling,  and  arithmetic  as  far  as  the  rule  of  three.  Grammar  was  ranked  among  the 
natural  sciences,  and  geography  among  the  classics.  At  the  appointed  time  the  chil- 
dren proceed  to  the  school-house,  guided  by  the  blazes  of  the  trees.  Here  they  come, 
joang  and  old,  male  and  female,  each  having  text-books  unlike  those  of  all  others. 
Anticipating  amusement  as  well  as  instruction,  one  brings  a  violin,  another  a  dog,  a 
third  a  jews-harp,  etc  They  venture  to  suggest,  at  the  outset,  to  the  teacher,  that  in 
order  to  have  a  good  school,  it  is  necessary  to  have  short  recitations,  long  intermis- 
sions, and  good  entertainment  Organization  is  out  of  the  question ;  each  scholar 
mast  recite  in  turn  out  of  his  own  book,  and  bring  up  his  slate  as  his  sums  are  worked. 
Order  is  almost  as  impracticable  as  organization. 

Happily  there  were  other  means  of  instruction  and  mental  development ;  the  debat- 
ing club,  the  neighborhood  meeting,  the  singing-school,  etc.,  but,  above  all,  the  home. 
Our  young  poet  heard  his  father  relate  the  tale  of  the  Revolution,  the  wrongs  of  the 
colonists,  their  determined  rebellion,  their  bloody  battles,  and  their  final  triumphs ;  he 
also  heard  him  describe  the  characters  of  the  leading  statesmen  and  warriors  of  that 
period,  the  organization  of  the  State  and  National  Governments,  the  causes,  and 
actors,  and  consequences  of  the  war  of  1812.  These  details  would  make  others  nec- 
essary ;  and  we  can  imagine  how  Otway  would  ascend  through  the  history  of  the 
United  States  to  that  of  Great  Britain,  and  from  that  of  Great  Britain  to  that  of  the 
middle  ages,  and  so  on,  up  to  the  great  nations  of  antiquity.  We  can  see  how  history 
would  make  geography  and  politics  needful,  and  how  these  would  lead  an  inquiring 
mind,  by  nearer  or  remoter  routes,  to  all  the  branches  of  education. 

Moreover,  the  pious  mother  had  her  pleasant  legends  and  fairy  tales,  with  which 
she  kept  down  the  rising  sigh,  and  kept  up  the  leaden  eyelids  of  the  little  ones  as  she 
sat  plying  her  spinning-wheel,  and  waiting  for  the  return  of  her  husband  from  the 
mill,  when  the  driving  snow-storm  delayed  him  far  into  the  hours  of  night  She 
seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  no  ordinary  woman  ;  she  was  accustomed  to  relate  over 
and  over,  at  her  fireside,  the  whole  story  of  Paradise  Lost,  as  well  as  of  many  other 
classic  poems,  so  that  young  Otway  was  familiar  with  their  scenes  and  characters  long 
before  he  could  read.  She  would  often  beguile  the  weary  hours  of  summer  nights  as 
fhe  sat  in  the  cabin  door  with  her  young  ones,  watching  for  the  return  of  the  older 
from  the  perilous  chase,  by  naming  the  constellations  as  they  came  up  to  the  horizon, 
and  explaining  the  ordinances  of  heaven. 

The  school  education  of  Otway  was  impeded  by  the  events  of  the  war  of  1812. 
When  it  broke  out  the  father  was  summoned  to  Chillicothe,  as  a  member  of  the  Leg- 
l«>Iature  ;  the  eldest  brother  went  out  with  the  army ;  the  rest  of  the  family  remained 
upon  tlje  farm  under  the  superintendence  of  the  prudent  and  patriotic  mother.  Alone 
in  the  wilderness,  surrounded  by  hostile  savages,  they  were  never  molested,  though 
often  alarmed.  On  one  occasion  their  horses  showed  every  indication  of  fear ;  their 
dogs  barked  furiously,  now  rushing  into  the  cornfield,  and  then  retreating  with  brist- 


90  OTWAY   CUURY.  [IsaO-^ti 


ling  hair,  us  if  drivon.  T)ie  fumil}*,  concluding  that  Indians  were  near,  prepared  lo 
figlit  'JLA  well  !L*i  pray.  Tlio  old  lady,  in  marshaling  her  t()n*cs,  stationed  young  Otwaj 
at  tlic  bars,  and  plai'ing  a  Icmdcd  gun  upon  a  re»t,  charginl  him  to  take  aim  and  tire  ti 
9oon  as  he  baw  am  Indian.  Fortunately,  there  was  no  attai'k  made  upon  the  dumeMk 
fort. 

As  th«r  young  |)oet  grew  up  he  began  to  read  the  lMX>ks  of  hia  father**  librmrj, 
which,  though  very  small,  was  very  choice,  con>i>ting  of  the  writings  of  Milton,  LiM-ke, 
and  other  gnMit  minds.  Before  he  attained  majority  he  ha<l  an  0(>portunity  of  attend-  j 
ing  a  f^ch(K>l  of  impn>ved  eharacter.  There  lived  in  the  neighborhood  of  Plfft^dnt  | 
Valley  a  Mr.  C,  who,  though  a  farmer,  had  a  g(M>d  English  education.  He  drafted  I 
d<.*«*ds,  wills,  and  articles  of  agn*emont,  gavo  cotmsel,  and  settled  controversies  and  • 
during  the  winter  taught  a  M^lect  si'hool  in  his  own  house.  Of  thiit  op|>ortuuitj  j 
Otwny  availed  himself,  and  thus  n*ceived  instniction  in  gnimnmr  and  geography.  Ilci 
8o<m  after,  in  i*omimny  with  a  brother,  miide  a  trip  to  Cincinnati,  tra%'eling  un  fool 
thnMigh  the  w<mmIs.  Whether  he  had  any  other  object  than  improvement,  I  am  not 
advised,  but  he  soon  nrturiird  with  his  ap}H'tite  for  tnivel  unaluted.  But  liow  fibould 
it  be  gnitilitHl?  To  aceuniulate  money  by  agricultural  pur>uits,  at  that  time,  wu  im- 
l)ossibIe ;  the  clearing*^  were  •im:ill,  the  mo<le  of  farming  laliorious ;  merclumdi»e  ww 
very  high,  and  pnMluce  very  low  ;  while  coflec*  was  twenty-five  centii  a  fiouml,  tea  a 
dollar  and  tifty,  coar.-e  nui^lin  twenty-five  cents  a  yani,  indigo  tifly  cents  an  ounoe, 
antl  camphor  worth  its  weight  in  >ilver;  butter  and  maple->ngar  wen*  six  ccnu  ■ 
IMHind,  corn  fifteen  cvnt>  a  bushel,  and  wheat  twenty-tive  cents.  Ginseng  and  bees- 
wax wen*  the  only  articles  th:it  would  Xn'nr  tnuisjturtatioii  to  the  (*:i.'*t. 

Young  Curry,  therefons  determined  to  Ir'urn  a  trsule.     This  could  be  done  without 
nuicli  ex)H'n>e,  and  wonl<l  enable  him  to  travel  where  he  |)l«':tM«d,  and  earn  a  living  in    , 
any  hH'atioii.     Ac4*onling}y,  in  IX'2*\,  lie  went  to  Lebanon  and  learned  the  art  of  car-    | 
|M*ntry  ;    tour  (»r  five  months  nfterwanl  be  went  to  Cin<Mnnati.  and  coiitimii*d  there,    1 
working  at  1114  tnide,  for  nearly  a  year.     We  next  hear  of  him  at  the  city  of  Detroit, 
when-  lie  >pent  a  summer,  bu'^ily  plying  hi>  Iminiiier  ainl   driving  his  plane,  all  tbe 
while  re«erving  time  fur  .-^tud}.  )M»iiiIeriiig  ilit*  page>  nfM-ieiict*  and  ]KN*try ;  fometimet 
by  the    light  of  shavings,  at   the   h>ne    hours  of  night,  or   the  more   propitious  period 
that  pn'Ciile^  tli«-  dawn.     Heturning  to  Ohio,  he  pa^^Ml  s<inie  time  at  work  in  the  Til- 
lage of  Marion. 

Mi»\«-<1  by  niinantic  inipuUe-;.  he.  in  ei»nipany  with  a  II'Mirv  WiNon.  maili*  a  <kiff't 
and  laniiehiiig  it  at  Miliville — a  5>iiiall  villaire  on  tin-  S«iot«>^when  the  waters  weiv 
HWi  11«  d  with  mills,  deM'ende<l  that  .Mnain  to  i(«  iiinu'ih.  «iii-iiii»uiitiiig  miH-(Lmi%  rorks, 
aiiil  all  other  ol»^t  rue  (ions.  lie  then  •lt>c«'iiihil  tin*  ()hi«>  t(»  Cincinnati.  Ilt-re  be  ! 
deti*nniiied  to  vi-ii  the  rice  tieltU  ami  oningf  gnA**.-  ot'  the  Suith.  Prueuring  a  pA^  j 
saL'«'  on  a  tlat-lKKit,  tor  him«eir  aii<l  a  chi-t  ot'  t(KiU,  hi*  pnN*<'«d'Ml  down  the  Ohio  and 
Mi'*i--ij»j»i,  and  spi-nt  a  year  at  Port  (iiliHiii  iM-fon-  In*  n'inni»'«h  ♦ 

Al«"Ut  ihi-s  time  he  «ninnioin-d  (ttnraire  to  ntlrr  ainnix  nn>u*lv  Mune  ver^i**  lii  the  ■ 
iii'i\*]«;H"  r*.:iininiir  which  wen-  hi-  sweet  |»«Min'i  "My  MnfhiT,**  and  "Kingdom  C«iine-*  . 
I(  i-  ]ir>iY>  i!i|«'  that  he  ha«l  writtm  iNN-trv  lung  In-ton',  but  wt>  an*  not  able  to  tnnv  the 

I 


I  tmm<m^ 


1830-40.]  OTWAY   CURRY.  91 

progress  of  his  mind  £nom  the  first  rude  attempts  at  versification  up  to  his  best  orig« 
inal  composition*  How  many  pages  were  consigned  to  the  fianles  aflei*  hAVulg  been 
GOiY^cted^  recited)  committed  to  memory,  and  conned  during  the  sleepless  nights  when 
nothing  distracted  his  mind  but  the  rustling  of  the  forest  leaves,  or  the  music  of  the 
katjdid  1  Could  we  get  the  genesis  of  even  one  living  poetical  creation,  how  much 
upheaving  and  downthrowing ;  how  much  fiery  and  watery  agitation ;  how  many 
depositions  in  darkness,  should  we  see,  before  even  a  stand-point  was  gained ;  and  then, 
how  long  after  this  before  light  comes,  and  the  spirit  moves  on  the  face  of  the  waters ! 

Mr.  Carry's  first  published  poetry  was  so  full  of  fine  sentiment  and  pleasing  imagery, 
and  was  withal  so  melodious  in  versification,  that  it  attracted  attention  and  won  admi- 
ration at  once.  On  his  return  to  Cincinnati,  he  contributed  more  freely  to  the  press, 
over  the  signature  of  ''Abdallah."  It  was  at  this  time  that  he  formed  the  acquaint- 
anoe  of  Wm.  D.  Gallagher,  who  was  induced  to  seek  for  him  by  reading  his  stanzas, 
**The  MinstreFs  Home."  This  acquaintance  was  improved  by  time,  and  unbroken 
by  jealousy,  envy,  or  serious  misunderstanding.  On  leaving  Cincinnati,  Mr.  Curry 
returned  to  Union  county,  where,  in  December,  182d,  he  was  married  to  Mary  Note- 
man,  a  lady  well  worthy  of  him,  and  who  became  a  prudent  and  devoted  wife. 

In  1829  he  again  visited  the  South,  and  spent  four  or  five  months  at  Baton  Rouge, 
contributing,  meanwhile,  poetical  productions  both  to  the  Cincinnati  Mirror  and  the 
Oit^cinnaH  Chronicle.  Upon  his  return,  he  settled  in  Union  county,  and  engaged 
anew  in  agricultural  pursuits,  which  he  prosecuted  with  industry  till  1839.  While  on 
his  farm  he  courted  the  muses  as  opportunity  ofiei*ed,  and  issued  some  of  his  best 
verses  from  his  rural  home. 

He  first  appeared  in  public  life  in  1836,  when  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the 
House  of  Representatives,  in  the  State  Legislature  of  Ohio.  In  this  capacity  he  won 
the  respect  of  his  colleagues,  and  the  confidence  and  approbation  of  his  oonstituents, 
who  re-elected  him  in  1837.  In  1838  he  became  united  with  Mr.  Gkillagher  in  the 
editorship  of  the  Hesperian^  at  Columbus-ra  monthly  literary  journal  of  high  order, 
which,  not  being  adequately  sustained,  was  discontinued  at  the  end  of  the  third  volume. 
In  1839  he  removed  to  Marysville,  and  commenced  the  study  of  the  law.  In  1842 
he  was  again  returned  to  the  Legislature ;  during  that  term  of.  service  he  purchased 
the  Greene  County  Torch  Light,  a  weekly  paper  published  at  Xenia,  whither  he 
removed  in  the  spring  of  1843.  He  conducted  his  paper — the  style  of  which  he 
changed  to  Xenia  Torch  Light — in  a  very  creditable  manner,  for  two  successive  years, 
when  he  sold  it,  and  removing  to  Marysville,  thenceforward  devoted  himself  to  his 
profession. 

Although  he  entered  the  law  late  in  life,  and  practiced  it  scarcely  ten  years,  yet,  as 
we  are  assured  by  one  of  his  ablest  competitors,  he  had  no  superior  as  a  sound  lawyer, 
within  the  range  of  his  practice,  and  bade  fair,  if  his  life  had  been  spared  a  few  years 
longer,  to  become  an  eminent  legal  mind. 

In  1850  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the  second  Ohio  Constitutional  Convention, 
and  with  manly  firmness  and  dignity  he  resisted  some  of  the  principles  of  the  instru- 
ment which  that  able  body  elaborated. 


92  OTWAY   CURRV.  [t8a»4t. 

In  1853  he  purchasi*d  the  Scioto  G<t2ttte — a  daily  published  in  Chillioothe — ^whidi 
he  edited  with  clmractcriBtic  ability  for  about  a  year,  when,  his  wife's  health  fiulin^ 
he  sold  out,  and  r<*tuniing  to  Miirysrille,  resumed  hL<  legal  practice. 

In  Januar}',  1854,  Mr.  Currj  wafl  President  of  the  Ohio  Editorial  CooTentioo  at 
Cincinnati,  and  by  the  urbanity  and  dignity  of  his  deportment  enhanced  largely  tke 
re9|)ect  entertained  for  liim  by  many  Ohio  editors,  who  had  long  known  his  poetry, 
but  luid  never  before  met  him  penjonally. 

In  1842,  when  in  attendance  as  a  member  of  the  Legislature,  he  suffered  an  attack 
of  bilious  pneumonia,  which  had  such  an  effect  upon  his  mind,  that  on  recovering  be 
made  a  profession  of  faith  in  that  Gospel  which  had  guided  his  steps  and  comforted 
his  heart,  by  uniting  with  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  in  whose  fellowship  be 
continued  till  he  died. 

Mr.  Curry  had  an  open  countenance,  impaired,  however,  by  strabismns,  a  broad  sad 
loAy  brow,  a  noble  form,  tall  and  well  proportioned,  which  might  have  home  with  esM 
the  armor  of  a  knight  of  the  middle  ages.  His  spirit  was  tliat  of  soathem  duTaby 
mingU*d  with  the  Puritan.  He  w&^  a  man  of  fine  ta<«te.  This  he  exhibited  in  his 
dress,  hU  langtiage,  his  reading,  in  fine,  in  every  thing.  Though  he  never  wore  any 
thing  gaudy  or  extravagiint,  he  had  none  of  Dr.  Johnson*s  indifference  to  fine  linen  • 
satisfied  with  garments  neat,  goo<l,  and  clean,  he  was  unhappy  if  they  were  soiled, 
Imdly  fitti'd,  or  of  unsuitable  material.  Undi*r  such  circumstances,  he  felt  depredated, 
and  could  not  bo  enticed  into  company.  In  selecting  cloth  for  his  own  use,  he  hai 
iM'cn  known  to  examine  the  same  piece  ten  times  before  he  could  make  op  his  nind 
conc<»ming  it. 

Wlicn  I  first  visited  him  he  dwelt  in  a  humble  cottage,  but  it  bore,  both  outside  and 
insi(lt>,  the  marks  of  neatness  and  delicacy ;  flowers  bordered  the  walks,  and  vines 
climlKHl  the  trellis ;  modest  carpets  covered  the  floors,  and  choice  books,  with  elegant 
binding<>,  spread  the  table.  Later  in  life,  he  occupied  a  house  more  spacioas,  bat  il 
bore  the  indications  of  neatness,  free  from  ostentation.  Ui>on  his  porch  a  magnificent 
we<'ping  willow  threw  its  shade  and  beautifully  synil>olize«l  the  owner^s  mind* 

Ills  words,  whether  written  or  spoken,  were  few  and  well  chosen.  This  is  the 
remarkable,  considering  tliat  his  early  education  was  so  limit(*d.  He  would  alio* 
thought  of  his  to  go  abroad  in  an  unsuitable  garment,  however  protracted  might  be 
the  procf^ss  of  fitting  it  When  he  wrote  for  tht*  pnss  his  first  drafts  were  scanned 
laitl  aside,  examined  again,  ahereil.  and  re-writtt*n,  sometimes  often,  l>efbre  they  were 
published.  Every  word  was  s<*rutinized.  Ilencv,  his  |KM*ms  lM.*ar  criticism,  and  will 
Im*  iM'st  appnviated  by  those  who  mo>t  elo-ely  exuiniiie  them.  Of  his  opinions  be 
Wif*  as  niH'ful  as  of  his  wonls.  Cautious  and  skeptli-al  to  a  fault,  he  never  expreswd 
or  ft)nneil  an  opinion  without  revolving  the  matter  in  his  mind,  long  and  carelully, 
and  reviewing  it  in  all  its  l)eariiig^. 

!^Ir.  Curry's  n-atling  was  n'nijirkably  ta'ti»ful  and  iinprrs-sive.  Of  this  Mr.  Galla- 
gher u*es  the  fallowing  term-::  **Mr.  Curry's  voiee  and  manner  of  reading  gave  to  hb 
|K)em«  a  peeuliar  <'hann.  And  when  this  was  hei;rlitene<l,  as  it  often  was,  at  thai 
|K*ri<Nl,  by  the  ((uiet  of  night,  the  rustling  of  leaves,  the  fitful  echoes  of  far-off  sounds, 


]  OTWAY  CURRY.  93 

^heiy  of  murmuring  winds  and  waters,  and  other  accompaniments  of  a  moon- 
imble,  prolonged  into  the  morning  hours,  the  fascination  was  irresistible.  On 
Lhese  occasions,  as  we  sat  overlooking  the  expanse  of  the  beautiful  Ohio,  the 
it  moon  and  an  autunmal  haze  enveloping  the  whole  scene  in  robes  of  softened 
3,  and  peculiar  dreaminess,  the  whole  of  some  provincial  romance  was  recited 
[)Ower  whose  weird  influence  rests  upon  mj  memory  yet." 
Carry's  name  is  without  a  spot.  In  early  life  he  labored  with  his  hands,  in 
^ars  with  his  mind ;  always  rendering  either  moral  or  material  benefit  for  all 
received.  When  called  to  office,  it  was  by  unsolicited  suffrages,  and  when 
in  power,  he  was  no  tool  of  party.  No  speeches  for  sinister  ends,  no  motion 
ious  purposes,  no  empty  declamations,  or  busy  demonstrations,  or  crafty  schemes 
^d  his  political  career.  Guided  by  a  sense  of  duty  to  his  country,  he  walked 
I  alike  of  private  threats  and  popular  clamor.  At  the  bar  he  was  the  shield 
sence,  the  terror  of  guilt,  and  the  moderator  of  justice.  Though  liable,  like 
len,  to  be  deceived  by  his  client  and  influenced  by  his  passions,  he  would  not 
what  he  deemed  an  unjust  claim  or  prosecute  a  just  one  in  an  unjust  mode, 
iditor,  he  manifested  the  same  integrity,  though  sorely  tried.  Once  determined 
»arse,  he  stopped  at  no  obstacles,  heeded  no  persecution,  and  declined  no  con- 
le  was,  however,  too  modest,  unambitious,  and  averse  to  public  life  for  a 

ras  a  man  of  great  social  and  domestic  virtue.  As  a  neighbor,  he  was  consid- 
eaceful,  obliging,  and  hospitable ;  looking  with  patience  upon  the  weakness, 
h  silence  upon  the  wrongs  of  others,  he  cherished  no  malignity,  fomented  no 
I,  flattered  no  patron,  and  pierced  no  victim.  Though  not  insensible  to  ingrat- 
leanness.  and  injury,  he  was  too  respectful  of  himself  and  too  charitable  toward 
to  indulge  in  any  utterances  that  would  give  pain,  unless  they  were  necessary 
udent  maintenance  of  right.  He  was  as  far  from  being  a  cynic  as  a  parasite, 
iras  not  polite,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  He  looked  austere,  and  was 
ly  regarded  by  the  stranger  as  proud,  distant,  and  afifected.  A  great  mistake. 
1  society,  indeed,  he  shrank  from ;  the  tlioughtless  multitude  he  studiously 
;  the  busy  marts  of  commerce,  with  their  deafening  din  and  overreaching 
b  eyed  with  coldness  and  disdain ;  the  cabals  and  intrigues  of  politics  he  shun- 
h  mingled  pity  and  indignation ;  the  whole  sinful  world  he  was  wont  to  regard 
st,  harsh,  and  hollow-hearted ;  to  the  prattler,  he  was  shy ;  to  the  sensualist, 
dy  repellant ;  to  the  skeptic,  painfully  reserved.  There  was  something,  at 
ven  terrible  in  his  distance  ;  but  to  those  whom  he  admitted  to  his  acquaint- 
3  was  gentle  as  the  south  wind — his  heart  glowed  with  love  and  yearned  for 
lip.  So  subtile  was  his  imagination,  so  profound  his  philosophy,  so  mystical 
tressions,  so  strong,  so  pure,  so  unwasting  his  aff*ections  that  few  could  appre- 
m.  He  knew  this,  and  hence  before  the  gazers  in  the  outer  court  of  his  spirit 
d  not  the  vail ;  but  with  an  intelligent,  confiding,  imaginative  friend,  whose 
as  in  harmony  with  his  own,  he  was  communicative,  fervent,  at  times  even 
nt,  occasionally  witty,  sometimes  humorous,  but  always  genial,  always  reverent 


J 


y4  OTWAY  CrUUV.  [lWO-44   I 

III  liiit  borne  he  found  a  {mnuliso.     Thither  his  Kteps  tendiMl  when  the  toil<  of  the   - 
(lay  were  ovct;   then*,  umong  hid  little  ones,  he  talked  ai*  a  child,  he  thougfat  v  a  , 
chilli,  he  played  a.s  a  child;   there,  too,  he  rf*joi(*ed  with  the  wife  of  his  youth,  and 
fountl  in  her  smiles  a  r(*coiniH*ns<?  for  his  lalMn*  and  a  refuge  fn>in  hid  cares.     He  wai  ' 
a  man  of  fervent  and  unostentatious  piety,  and  he  dclighti^d  in  simplicity  of  worship, 

lie  had  a  iiiH'  imagination,  which  was  not,  perlui{M^  always  properiy  restnincd.  ' 
In  youth  he  indulged  in  castle-huilding,  delighted  in  tales  and  romances,  and  dwelt 
inucii  in  fairy -land ;  ao  much  so  tlmt  he  was  di*emed,  by  those  who  did  not  know  him   . 
wi'll,  to  be  moody  in  his  tem|N*r  and  dreamy  in  his  views.     Mr.  Gallagher,  iipeaking 
of  him  in  early  life,  says:   '•Tli4»  peculiar  charac*teristi(«  of  Mr.  Curry,  since  frwiy 
dcveloiHMl,  were  then  distinctly  1in(>d.     He  cultivatcMl  music  with  literature,  and  per> 
formtMl  well  u[K)n  the  Hute.     The  strains  of  his  instrument  were  toucbingly  sweet,  si 
wen*  those  of  his  pen.     I^)th  lai'ked  vigor  of  expr(*ssion,  and  were  dreamy  in  the 
extn*me.     His  flute  drew  its  airs  from  a  feudal  and  ca^^tled  age,  when  melancboly 
minstrels  wooed  romantic  maidens  by  stealth,  and  chivalrous  knightA  dared  death  and 
di>h(mor  for  the  favor  of  high-bom  dames.     His  ptm  found  a  ft'ast,  aim,  in  his  ima^  ' 
inative  soul,  and  from  that  drt>w  |H'n>ive  airs  which  melted  \iia  own  heart  to  tearSy  and  i 
touched  the  hearts  of  others.     But  of  the  music  of  the  battle-field,  or  that  of  the 

I 

stage,  or  of  the  fashionable  saloon,  his  flute  rarely  discourse<I ;   M)  of  the  oonfBct  of 
opinion,  the  struggles  of  the  muses,  the  aspinitions  of  the  soul  af)cr  a  higher  and 
nobler  free<lom  here  u|M)n  earth,  the  clamor,  and  cht^h.  and  upheaving,  and  down-  | 
thntwing  that  are  of  the  elements  of  pn»gn'ss,  his  i»en  took  no  note." 

His  writings  s<.*em  wanting  in  sfime  of  the  fruits  of  imagination.  They  exhibit 
wit  or  hiunor — not,  however,  Ixfcause  of  incafuicity,  but  Ix-cause  they  were  nnaoitable  ' 
to  his  themes.  Ho  was  of  too  serious  and  reven^nt  a  spirit  to  mingle  grotesque  j 
images  and  unex|M'eted  asstKMations  with  >ubjtMi>  of  ii'ligiou>  faith.  lie  had  but  little  ' 
onitoriciil  g«>nius.  H«*  could  not  amuse  and  amuse  a  |M)pular  assembly.  His  piwe 
is  n'markably  fn>c  from  tropes  and  metaphors.  Kvcn  his  [M>etr}'  Lu*ks  too  mnch  the 
charm  of  figurntive  huigtnigf*.  He  never  presents  us  with  the  terrible,  rarely  with 
tin*  gnui<l,  never  with  the  sublime.  It  must  l»e  admitted.  th«*retbn\  that  his  imagina- 
timi  was  not  of  the  highest  order;  still  it  wa<  superior,  ami  being  active  in  his  youth, 
it  din'Cted  his  nmding,  seh'cted  his  eom|»ari^(ms,  sha^HNl  his  course  in  life,  and  coo- 
trilmted  greatly  to  hi-*  sorrows  and  his  joys.  He  <lwelt  much  in  the  inner  worU, 
which  he  made  nion*  beautiful  and  enchanting  than  the  outer.  Here  were  Ibantainf 
that  never  faih'd.  gniss  that  <finn*al«*d  no  snak«*»*,  fi treats  tr:ivers<»d  by  no  savage  ' 
foi',  anirels  whom  he  c<inM  >ee  face  to  fare.  Till**  wi'ak«ned  his  attention  to  ' 
tlie  n-iil  world,  and  n*n«l«'ii-d  him  aver-e  to  it**  -tnii:;:!*'".  friv<»lities,  and  pursuit^ 
ami  *'\ri\  ri'liietant  to  enter  iijhui  the  diitie-  of  lift*  and  the  enterpri»es  of  science  and 
virMu'. 

Krhrn-a  S.  Nii'lhiN.  lnTif-lf  a  chiM  of  song,  and  a  friend  of  Mr.  Curry,   thus 
iNniitit'nllv  dr^i'ribe^  hi*  «onl-life: 

AV'Ip'i.  t)i>*  )<'ily  tM'-uf  |NH'.y  liiir;iiil  f'1i>nr  tin<1  ^rii;lit.  rifinin.'  thf  iiiat'-riul  man.  sm]  lifting  tlw 
m>*ri'  •  tli'-n.tl  i'l>'nifnt  uf  our  iwiit'nM  natiin*  up  t<i  thf  n  »lrn«  ttf  lovi*.  and  faith,  ami  peace,  vb<i« 


OTWAY   CURRY.  95 

illing  Boal  preludes  the  feast  of  immortal  joys.  No  petty  ambitions,  no  goading  desires 
and  fame  among  the  great  of  earth,  ever  soiled  the  bosom  of  our  friend.  To  move  qni- 
(  accustomed  round  of  prescribed  duties — to  enjoy  the  conmiunion  of  chosen  and  congenial 
»  yield  himself  up  to  the  manifold  enchantments  of  inspiring  nature — to  utter  in  verse, 
id  musical  as  his  favorite  streams,  the  live  thoughts  of  the  passing  moments,  made  up  the 
s  daily  happiness ;  and  if  a  shade  of  sadness,  as  of  some  secret  and  acknowledged  sorrow, 
die  placid  beauty  of  existence,  it  only  added  tenderness  to  the  hearts  of  those  who  knew 
him,  and  made  them  more  eager  to  minister  to  liis  simple  and  unadulterated  pleasures. 

Carry's  sorrow  was  softened  by  sublime  ftdth.  He  traced  the  departed  good 
e  charms  of  ^^  saints  made  perfect,"  into  the  heavenly  world.  He  believed, 
ton,  that 

"  Millions  of  spirits  walk  the  earth  unseen, 
Both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep," 

those  who  loved  us  in  life  bear  their  love  into  heaven,  and  often  come  down 
ir  blissful  seats  to  be  our  ^  ministering  spirits  on  earth."  It  is  a  beautiful 
ich  we  would  not  disturb. 

t  the  light  of  an  endless  morning,  and  dwelt  in  the  vicinity  of  heaven.  He 
one  in  a  cavern,  speaking  up  the  shafl  to  loved  ones  listening  in  the  light 
With  all  his  imagination  he  was  a  man  of  safe  and  sober  judgment  His 
rs  that  he  could  unite  the  practical  with  the  poetical  As  an  agriculturist,  a 
V  a  legislator,  an  editor,  and  a  lawyer,  he  was  respectable  ;  as  a  critic  and  a 
was  more.  When  we  consider  that,  although  he  entered  upon  life  without 
,  education,  or  the  interest  of  leading  friends,  and  never  enjoyed  a  lucrative 
made  a  fortunate  speculation,  yet  sustained  and  educated  his  family  reputably, 
3fided  to  the  calls  of  charity  and  religion,  we  must  concede  that  his  mind  was 
need, 
is  nothing  eccentric  in  his  character,  nothing  wonderful  in  his  deeds  or  suffer- 

moved  in  obedience  to  the  ordinary  laws  of  the  human  mind,  and  experi- 
i  common  lot  of  good  men.  His  life  began  in  melody,  progressed  in  conflict, 
d  in  peace ;  we  know  nothing  in  it  that  might  not  be  written  in  an  epic.  His 
also  are  pure ;  they  contain  nothing  which  might  not  safely  be  read  by  all 
hey  may  not  present  us  with  any  thing  sublime,  neither  do  they  with  any 
urd  or  trifling ;  their  chief  fault,  perhaps,  is  their  want  of  variety.  Most  of 
■e  the  productions  of  his  youth,  written  in  the  intervals  of  daily  toil.* 
arry's  chief  characteristic  was  his  taste.  His  mind  was  in  harmony  with 
be  had  a  relish  for  all  beauty.  To  him  it  was  not  in  vain  that  God  painted 
cape  green,  cast  the  channels  of  the  streams  in  graceful  curves,  lighted  up 
of  night,  and  turned  the  gates  of  the  day  on  golden  hinges  amid  the  anthems 
eful  world.     No  tliirst  for  wealth,  no  conflict  for  honor,  no  lust  of  meaner 

destroyed  his  sensibility  to  the  harmonies  and  proportions  of  the  universe. 
;hild  he  was  fond  of  nature  and  solitude ;  as  he  grew  up  poets  were  his  com- 

with  them  he  sympathized ;  with  them  he  sat,  side  by  side,  in  the  enchanted 

f  his  poems  which  hare  met  most  ikvor,  were  first,  published  u  extracts,  from  "  The  Maniac  Minstrel— 
lestine."    An  elaborate  poem,  nearly  completed,  was  lost  a  short  time  before  Mr.  Cony's  death. 


9G  OTWAY   CIRRY.  [1(»30-M. 


land  of  soii^;  to  see,  to  enjoy  what  the  idle,  the  worldly,  ami  the  profane  cannut;  • 
this  wa«  not  mert^ly  his  piistime,  but  his  living.     A  luxurioud  melancholy  chaAtened  hit 
ffpirit  an<l  mellowed  the  light  which  it  reflt'cte<L  j 

Thore  \a  un  intimate  cx>nnection  between  U^nuty  and  froodnes^s — the  latter  is  to  the  ; 
former  wluU  the  soul  is  to  the  body  ;  the  beauty  that  beams  ujion  us  from  the  face  of   | 
nature  is  but  the  expression  of  Divine  goodness — the  ^mile  by  which  God  woaM  ai-  , 
tnu't  us  to  his  arms.     If  so,  he  who  is  truly  enamored  of  beauty  must  aspire  aAer  God. 
and  as  goodness  is  necessary  to  bring  us  into  communion  with  him,  he  must  pant 
aAer  tliat.     Nothing  but  depravity  cim  prevent  this  natural  result. 

The  love  of  lM*:uity  is  u.-^ually  associated  with  the  capacity  to  reproduce  it ;  that  w 
tjiste,  this  is  art.     Mr.  Curry *s  art  was  not  pn>|»ortif)iiate  to  his  taste :  it  manifested 
itself  in  the  sweet  music  of  his  flute  and  the  sweeter  strains  of  his  verse ;  the  fonncr  ' 
is  la»t  in  the  empty  air,  the  latter  will  flo^u  down  the  river  of  time.     His  poetiy  will  | 
not  bi^  reli>hed  by  the  mass  ;  it  has  no  pa'ans  of  battle,  no  provocatives  of  mirth,  no 
mo<'k('ry  of  misery,  no  strokes  of  malice.     It  is  the  song  of  a  n>Iigious  soul ;  fiiith  u 
the  bond  which  links  its  st^iiiziis,  a  faith  that  brings  hraven  n<*ar  to  earth  and  man  into  ! 
fellow>ltip  with  ang«*ls.     Like  wine  it  will  l>e  pronounivd  better  as  it  grown  older,  ouC   ' 
Ix^'cause  it  will  improve,  but  l>eeaus(>  the  worbfs  tasfe  will.     A\luit  he  uttered  we  uat 
Bupjwise  wa-*  little  compan'd  with  what  he  lM>re  away  with  him  into  heaven,  where  be 
will  take  up  the  har]>  that  h<'  laid  down  too  early  on  «*i&rth. 

The  <'rowning  art  of  our  ixM*t  wa««  \iU  life.  That  he  luul  the  infirmities  of  man  we 
do  not  deny  ;  that  he  sinm.'fl  and  wept ;  that  he  wandrnMl  and  grieved ;  that  ofttimei 
when  h(.'  would  do  good  evil  was  pn'sent  with  him ;  that  Ik*  sjiw,  in  n*tro<pei*ting  hii 
life,  many  lost  opi>ortuniti*'s  of  u^cfiilnrs^ ;  iniiny  wounds  in  kind  hearts  long  iitilled  in 
deatli  that  he  would  gLidly  heal ;  many  (*old  I'ars  into  which  he  would  fain  pour  the 
pniVfT  <»f  forgiven(*ss ;  many  iu'ts  over  wliich  he  would  fain  w«»ep  tears  of  blood,  and 
many  < ■mot ions  towanl  the  Giver  of  all  giMMl,  under  the  pn*>>un*  of  which  he  would 
not  >o  much  its  lit\  up  his  eyes  to  heaven  without  a  mediator.  Hut  in  this  world  of 
sin,  amid  tliis  im'essiuit  <*onflict  with  error,  how  few  have  }>assc*d  so  pure  a  life  or 
breailieil  so  Muxh'^t,  so  gentle  a  spirit!  IIen*in  is  art !  the  best  man  is  the  high«?fl 
artiM.  It  i>  iii>pii*irig  to  >«'e  gotidiie.'.s,  meekness,  lon;r->uf!erin^,  even  amid  orca^ionlI 
|N>tu)anc(N  and  wn>n;:s  iN-amiiig  frtim  the  tiiee  of  man,  ju^t  n.<  it  is  to  sec  Divine  wi^ 
dom,  ami  |Miwer,  and  giMNlne^^.  though  amid  *<tnmis  and  eartlifpiakes,  shadowed  froa 
tlie  fare  ot*  th«*  luiiverM'.  It  wiT**  ;;nuid  to  stan<l  in  .-^ome  venenible  ti*mplc,  all  nnim- 
(Kiin-tl  by  litne,  retieeting  the  liu'lit  from  its  dia|iIianous  walN.  anil  pres4*nting  on  all 
siili>  the  iin-inoriaU  of  anrient  faitli :  but  gnunler.  far.  to  ^urvey  the  divine  temple  of 
a  giMxi  lit'«'.  liinig  nmnd  with  tropliies  won  from  earth  ami  iielK  liallowi^^l  all  over  with 
the  Ml  km!  of  Clirist,  and  voeal  with  sonars  eelKHMl  from  the  upfN*r  world. 

Mr.  (  iiiTv  tan;rht  th«'  je-j^in  lA'  dving  well  no  le^^  than  of  livinir  welL  Mar  we 
not  Im  !•«•  rh;it  he  <*|(»«(d  hi«  evf^  f>ii  earth  in  full  vifw  of  h«'n\en  antl  its  ansels!  Ob 
the  -rx'-iiii  irith  of  Febriiarv,  ls")"i.  \i^  \va«»  hiiil  in  a  IiuiiiMe  irnive,  whieh.  perh.ip^ 
may  he  -m.-jht  tiir  after  the  nif>niinients  niisiH]  to  our  liepN'^  <}iall  have  been  forsotten. 


1830-40.] 


OTWAY  CURRY. 


97 


THE  KINSTREL'S  HOME. 

The  image  of  a  happier  home. 
Whence  fiir  my  feet  have  strayed, 

Still  flits  aromid  me,  as  I  roam, 
Like  joy's  departed  shade ; 

Though  childhood's  light  of  joy  has  set, 

Its  home  is  dear  to  memory  yet ! 

Here— where  the  lapse  of  time  has  swept 

The  forest's  waving  pride. 
And  many  a  summer  light  hath  slept 

Upon  the  green  hill's  side, 
ni  rest,  while  twilight's  pinions  spread 
Their  shadows  o'er  my  grassy  bed. 

Yon  stars— enthroned  so  high — so  bright, 
Like  gems  on  heaven's  fair  brow, 

Through  all  the  majesty  of  night 
Are  smiling  on  me  now : 

The  promptings  of  poetic  dreams 

Are  floating  on  their  pale,  pure  beams. 

The  muses  of  the  starry  spheres 

Hi^  o'er  me  wend  along. 
With  visions  of  my  infant  years 

Blending  their  choral  song — 
Strewing  with  &nc3r's  choicest  flowers. 
The  pathway  of  the  trancM  hours. 

They  sing  of  constellations  high, 
The  weary  minstrel's  home ; 

Of  days  of  sorrow  hastening  by, 
And  bright  ones  yet  to  come — 

Far  in  the  sky,  like  ocean  isles. 

Where  sunny  light  forever  smiles. 

They  sing  of  happy  circles,  bright; 

Where  bards  of  old  have  gone ; 
Where  rounding  ages  of  delight, 

Undimmed,  are  shining  on, — 
And  now,  in  silence,  sleeps  again 
The  breathing  of  their  mystic  strain. 

Leave  me — O !  leave  me  not  alone, 
While  I  am  sleeping  here ; 


Still  let  that  soft  and  silvery  tone 

Sound  in  my  dreaming  ear; 
I  would  not  lose  that  stnun  divine, 
To  call  earth's  thousand  kingdoms  mine  I 

It  is  the  sunbeam  of  the  mind. 
Whose  bliss  can  ne'er  be  won, 

Till  the  reviving  soul  shall  find 
Life's*  long,  dark  journey  done, — 

Then  peerless  splendor  shall  array 

The  morning  of  that  sinless  day. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

Mt  mother !  though  in  darkness  now 
The  slumber  of  the  grave  is  pass'd, 

Its  gloom  will  soon  be  o'er,  and  thou 
Wilt  break  away  at  last, 

And  dwell  where  neither  grief  nor  pain 

Can  ever  reach  thy  heart  again. 

Sleep  on — the  cold  and  heavy  hand 
Of  death  has  stilled  thy  gentle  breast. 

No  rude  sound  of  this  stormy  land 
Shall  mar  thy  peaceful  rest : 

Undying  guardians  round  thee  close, 

To  count  the  years  of  thy  repose. 

A  day  of  the  far  years  will  break 
On  every  sea  and  every  shore, 

In  whose  bright  morning  thou  shalt  wake 
And  rise,  to  sleep  no  more — 

No  more  to  moulder  in  the  gloom 

And  coldness  of  the  dreary  tomb. 

I  saw  thy  fleeting  life  decay. 

Even  as  a  frail  and  withering  flower, 

And  vainly  strove  to  while  away 
Its  swifUy  closing  hour: 

It  came,  with  many  a  thronging  thought 

Of  anguish  ne'er  again  forgot. 


!M 


OTWAY    CrURY. 


[1«»-M 


In  lifi'V  proud  drt'ani^  I  have  no  |Mirt — 
No  nhare  in  im  ix>M>unding  glee ; 

Tlie  musingA  of  mj  weary  heart 
Are  in  the  grave  with  thee : 

'Flierc  have  bet>n  hitter  tear»  of  mine 

Above  tliat  lowly  bed  of  thine. 

It  8e<*m.4  to  mj  fond  memory  now 
As  it  liod  been  but  y<^5terdn7, 

When  I  was  but  a  child,  and  thou 
Didst  ebe<'r  me  in  my  play ; 

And  hi  the  evenings  i^till  and  lone, 

DidM  lull  me  with  thv  music-tone. 

m 

And  when  the  twilight  hours  bi*gun, 
And  shining  constellations  canus 

Thou  ItadVt  me  know  each  nightly  sun. 
And  con  its  anri«mt  name ; 

For  thou  ha<»t  learned  their  lore  and  light 

With  watch ings  in  the  tranquil  nighL 

And  tlien  when  leaning  on  thy  knee, 
I  saw  them  in  their  grandeur  rise. 

It  w:is  a  joy,  in  s<K»th.  to  me : 
But  now  the  starry*  skies 

m 

Seem  holier  grown,  and  doubly  fair, 
Siniv  thou  art  with  the  angels  there. 

Tlie  stream  of  life  with  hurrj'ing  fk>w 
lut  anirse  may  Iv.ir  me  switUy  thro' ; 

1  grieve  not,  for  I  soim  shall  go. 
And  bv  thv  side  renew 

The  love  which  here  for  ihee  I  bone. 

And  never  leave  thy  pn*st»nce  more. 


Shall  we  loae  them  all  forever? 

Leave  them  on  this  earthly  strand? 
Shall  their  joyous  radiance  never 

lieach  us  in  the  spirit  land  ? 

Soon  the  tide  of  life  upflowing 
Buoyantly  from  time's  dim  shores 

Where  sujiemal  flowers  are  growin^^ 
Shall  meander  evermore. 

Tliere  the  hopes  that  long  have  told  n 
Of  the  c*limes  beyond  the  tomb, 

While  superber  skies  enfold  nsi 
Shall  renew  their  stanj  bkMNii. 


And  the  bloom  that  here  in 

Faded  from  the  flowers  of  knre, 

Shall  with  its  immortal  gladnen 
Crown  us  in  the  world  above. 


AITTMX  MCSIXGS. 

T  IS  autumn.    Many,  and  many  a  flee 
ing  age 

;  Hath  f:u1ed  since  the  primal  mora  of  TioM 
I  And  silently  the  slowly  journeying  yean 
>  All  n^lolent  of  countless 


TllK  BMVs^i^MS  OF  I.lFt 

l.tvr  is  like  a  swivping  river, 
iV:ist»K  ss  in  it<  s«'awanl  ll*>w — 

ih\  whti^e  w:i\eoipiii-k  Minlnams  4pii\iT. 
ihi  mI.o^o  lv;uik<  sweet  Mo>.Mmi«i  cn*w- 

ri!.»-^,Mu<  x\\\\x\  to  js:n»w  ar.il  \h  ri*h: 
S\\i:l  til  1>Uh>iu  ;i:..i  ^'uif:  :o  tall; 

V}i,iM'  we  « :iliii  «(    I«:irii  U*  ihi  n>h 
S.«i«:u*t  j»;v<*  l'e\onti  nvall. 


Tlie  spring-time  wakes  in  beantj,  and 
fraught 

With  power  to  thrill  tbe  leap 
I  joy. 

And  urp?  the  footsteps  of  ideal  kope 
With  tlow err  lightness  on.    In 
Kr "Splendent  summer  garkndelb  tha  woil 
And  iMntempLition  through  her  sky  sna 
A^>-nds  unwr^irii-^L  emulous  to  lead. 
To  m:ir>h:il,  and  to  prtMidly  panoply 
Tht  \-t;iri>  "i  ff  ambi:i«^  as  they  rise. 
Tit  «t-  » i:);  :7  •  :r  jiMiil  pageants  duwppei 
Ar.d  Vf  xtal  Tni:h  leads  on  the  silent  hm 
t»:"   ;i. •.:..:.::■.■?   K-i..  ly  rvl^a.      Tlie  wew 


m;k:irs  and  the  tnn-kiov 


plai:'.<. 


W.] 


OTWAY   CUBRY. 


99 


hispering  as  thej  pass  a  long  fore- 
tell 

e  frail  emblems  of  the  waning  year, 
Irooping  foliage,  and  the  dying  leaves, 
is  the  .time  for  care ;  to  break  the 
spell 

rer-fieiding  fancy ;  to  contrast 
evanescent  beams  of  earthly  bliss 
the  long,  dread  array  of  deepening 
IL 

ills  of  life  are  twofold :  those  which 
all 

lead-like  weight  upon  the  mortal  clay, 
transient  in  their  kind;  for  the  frail 
lost 

cmg  shall  blend  with  the  innumerous 
uinds, 

g^oms  of  the  boundless  universe, 
rbed  in  the  unfelt,  unconscious  rest 
ieless,  soulless  matter,  without  change, 
when  the  far-off  period  shall  arrive 
tadowy  nothingness. 

The  deadlier  ills 
tinge  existence  with  unbroken  gloom, 
ost  to  melioration,  for  they  hold 
sver-during  spirit  in  their  grasp, 
in  their  kind  a  withering  permanence. 
ager  in  unrest — to  be  endowed 
high  aspiring,  endless,  limitless  I 
lought's  unshackled  pinions  to  outride 
dr-bome  eagles  of  the  Apennines ; 
ieroe  the  surging  depths  of  endless 
(pace; 

vel  in  the  stalwart  fervidness 
I  careering  storms !  to  sweep  sublime 
igh  the  &r  regions  of  inmiensity, 

fall  astounded  from  the  dreaming 
leight, 

wake  in  wildering  durance :  these 
ire  things 

well  may  dim  the  sleepless  eyes  of 
sure, 

thou,  too.  Friendship,  pilgrim-child  of 
aeaven ! 
3ahn  that  brings  the  spirit  sweet  relief 


From  the  keen  stings  of  sorrow  and  de- 
spair, 
*Tis  thine  to  give ;  yet  the  deep  quietude 
Of  tlie  bereaving  tomb  hath  shrouded  ofl 
The  mormng-prime  of  beings  formed  for 
thee. 


THE  ETERNAL  RIVER. 

Betond  the  silence,  beyond  the  gloom 
Of  the  vale  of  death  and  the  dreary  tomb. 
Beyond  the  sorrow,  beyond  the  sin 
Of  earthly  ages,  its  waves  begin. 
Along  the  slope  of  its  margin  bright, 
The  groves  rise  up  in  a  land  of  light. 
And  the  shining  flowers  of  the  crystal  rills 
Ck)me  leaping  down  from  the  jasper  hills. 
And  all  the  millions  who  take  their  birth, 
In  the  dark  old  climes  of  the  ancient  earth, 
When  the  strife  and  grief  and  pain  of  the 

past 
Are  all  forgotten,  will  glide  at  last, 
Ay,  crowned  with  glory  and  gladness,  glide 
Along  the  sweep  of  that  radiant  tide ; 
While  all  before  them  and  all  around 
Shall  the  ceaseless  song   of  the   seraph 

sound: 

Amidst  the  murmuring  fountains 

Of  everlasting  life, 
Thy  spirit,  like  a  bounding  bark, 

With  song  and  gladness  rife, 
Groes  gliding  to  the  palmy  shore 
That  lies  in  sunny  light  before. 

Glide  on,  glide  on,  rejoicing— 

The  glories  of  that  strand 
Are  tinted  by  the  golden  mom 

Of  an  immortal  land, 
Whose  lingering  hope  and  pearly  ray 
Shall  never  fade  nor  fleet  away. 

The  silvery  tide  will  bear  thee 

Araid  the  sound  and  bloom 
Of  many  a  green  and  blessed  isle, 

Whose  shining  banks  illume 


■*      I 


100 


OTWAY  CURRY. 


[MMIL 


Ea(*h  wonderin^ir  bark  and  pathway  dim 
Along  the  |)as6iiig  billow's  brim. 

And  floon  the  winds  shall  wail  thee 

Among  the  groves  that  lave 
Tin*  «*merald  of  thvir  bonding  boughs. 

In  liiV*8  eternal  wave, 
And  round  thcte  shall  the  music  rii^e 
Of  Iiappier  worlds  and  calmer  skies. 


KINGDOM  COME.* 

I  DO  not  believe  tlio  sad  story 

Of  ages  of  slcK^p  in  tlie  tomb ; 
I  sliall  |mss  far  away  to  the  glory 

And  grundfur  of  Kingdom  Come. 
The  (udeness  of  d<*utli,  and  its  stillness, 

May  rest  on  my  brow  ibr  awhile ; 
And  my  spirit  may  lose  in  its  chillness 

The  splendor  of  hope's  happy  smile ; 

But  the  gloom  of  tlie  grave  will  be  tran- 
sient 

And  light  as  tlie  slumlwrs  of  wortli ; 
And  then  I  shall  blend  with  the  ancient 

And  beautiful  forms  of  the  earth. 
Through  the  climes  of  tlie  sky,  and  the 
bowers 

Of  blisti,  evermore  I  sliall  roam, 
Wearinfl:  crowns  of  the  stairs  and  the  flowers 

That  glitter  in  Kingdom  Come. 

TIh'  friiMids  who  have  parted,  iM'fore  me, 
Fn)m  life's  gloomy  pit^ion  and  pain, 

WIhii  the  shadow  of  dt*ath  parses  o'er  me. 
Will  smile  on  me  fondly  agnin. 

*  W^  Mv  BiiUM>ntlrAllj  lnfbm«Hl  thm  "  KinfpJmn  Cmw" 
^  .vi  vritira  whil«  thf  aathor.  jet  a  >ouni{  man.  wm#  on  a  j 
«i»ii  tit  thr  S<iuth.     Ilv  van  unrkin^  a*  a  j<>urn<-jinao  rar- ; 
;i iifrr.     A   frltdw-wnrkjnan  bail  Itrmtiit*  **nafii<«r*^l   of  n 
."•-•ntliiTn  bmat>,  and  auuicht  Hit  liaiid  In  mairlafr^.    II** , 
Itul*  rival.    Tbr  law  wa«  partial  tn  thr  rarpi*iitrr:  l>ut ' 
lier  f.-itlirr  wa»  not  dfcUlMl  in  tiU  pr«*fi*rrn<*<*  nf  thr  •ulitirn  i 
III*  «B«  a  firmt  |n?»r  of  |io«trT.  ami  he  told  thr  rlraU  that : 
alilrhf-vrr  »P»tr  tht>  \wm%  pirm  «1k>u1<I  hnrm  tht>  Klrl.     The 
carpputrr  wa«  nu*  a  poet.     He  appealed  to  bb  firlk>w*«ork< 


Their  voices  were  lost  in  the  floondlea 
Retreats  of  their  endless  home. 

But  soon  we  shall  meet  in  the 
Effulgence  of  Kingdom  Come. 


THE  ARMIES  OF  THE  EV& 

Not  in  the  golden  mornings 
Sliall  fade<l  forms  return ; 

For  languidly  and  dimly  then 
The  Ughte  of  memory  bam : 

Nor  when  the  noon  unfoldeth 
Its  sunny  light  and  smile, 

For  these  unto  their  bright  repose 
The  wantlering  spirits 


But  when  the  stars  are  wending 
Their  radiant  way  on  high. 

And  gt^ntle  winds  are  whispering  bad 
The  music  of  the  sky; 

Oh,  then  thost*  sUiny  miUions 
Tlieir  streaming  Imnnem  weare^ 

To  marsluil  on  their  wildering  waj 
The  Annifs  of  the  Eve ; 


The  dim  and  shadowy 

Of  our  unquiet  dreams, 
AMioM'  foot.iteps  bmsh  the  featheiyftw^ 

And  print  the  sletqiing 


Wc'  m(>et  tlicm  in  the  cabnneM 
Of  high  and  holier  climes; 

We  <rn'<*t  tlioin  wiili  the  blessed 
Of  old  and  luippier  times ; 


man.  Mr.  Curr^-,  and  borrowed  "  Klniptai 

the  father  imd  the  poem*,  he  waa 

than  t>ef  >n>.    Both  ««-re  m*  frnod  h*  covU  M»t 

t-ntm  f heni .     The  mrpinter  thou|rbt  thei* ««• 

flinilllar  In  hi*  rivnl''  lim^.  and  m  be  told  Mr. 

ntved  hini  ti>  ohtnin  a  ropy.     Hr  utratafm  K* 

.iiid  Mr.  t^urr^-  dctertnl  in  the  rfral 

fi^m  Mr*.  Hrmanii.    The  theft  wa«  c 

the  rar|<entrr  von  the  fdrl.    After  the  ksoC 

Vild  the  joke.^-O'mtMs  o/  tJu  SVaI,  Ja4y, 


OTWAY   CURRY. 


101 


chiog  in  the  star-light 
the  sleeping  dust, 
hen  all  the  fountain-springs 
nndjing  trust 

ur  every  pathway 
iteous  ranks  they  roam^ 
us  to  the  dreamy  rest 
Eternal  Home. 


HE  BETTER  LAND. 

le  is  the  silent  night— 
Avens  are  in  my  sightr* 
om  of  earth  I  stand, 
br  the  Better  Land. 

many  an  olden  year 
my  listening  ear — 
those  that  now,  I  ween. 
Iter  Land  are  seen. 

II  many  pilgrims  meet — 

III  many  mourners  greet 
,  parted  long  before, 

the  Better  Shore. 

sound  of  grieving  word 
jver,  ever  heard — 
'  joy  and  love  alone 
tter  Land  are  known. 

m  the  tide  of  time, 
r  the  Better  Clime, 
am  speeding  fast, 
3  toils  of  time  are  past 

aving  far  behind 
urk  memories,  let  me  find 
3ile  and  greeting  hand, 
the  Better  Land. 

it  the  falling  tear 
rer  disappear : 
weary  and  oppressed, 
he  Land  of  Rest 


THE  GOINGS  FORTH  OF  GOD. 

God  walketh  on  the  earth.    The  purl- 
ing rills 
And  mightier  streams  before  him  glance 

away, 
Rejoicing  in  his  presence.    On  the  plains. 
And  spangled  fields,  and  in  the  mazy  vales. 
The  living  throngs  of  earth  before  Him  fall 
With  thankful  hymns,  receiving  from  his 

hand 
Immortal  life  and  gladness.     Clothed  upon 
With  burning  crowns  the  mountain-heralds 

stand, 
Proclaiming  to  the  blossoming  wilderness 
The  brightness  of  his  coming,  and  the  power 
Of  EUm  who  ever  liveth,  all  in  all  I 

Grod  walketh  on  the  ocean.  Brilliantly 
The  glassy  waters  mirror  back  His  smiles. 
The  surging  billows  and  thci  gamboling 

storms 
Come  crouching  to  His  feet    The  hoary 

deep 
And  the  green,  gorgeous  islands  offer  up 
The  tribute  of  their  treasures — ^pearls,  and 

shells, 
And  crown-like  drapery  of  the  dashing 

foam. 
And  solemnly  the  tesselated  halls, 
And  coral  domes  of  mansions  in  the  depths. 
And  gardens  of  the  golden-sanded  sea, 
Blend,  with  the  anthems  of  the  chiming 

waves, 
Their  alleluias  unto  Him  who  rules 
The  invisible  armies  of  eternity. 

Grod  joumeyeth  in  the  sky.  From  sun 
to  sun. 

From  star  to  star,  the  living  lightniugs  flash ; 

And  pealing  thunders  through  all  space 
proclaim 

The  goings  forth  of  Him  whose  potent  arm 

Perpetuates  existence,  or  destroys. 

From  depths  unknown,  unsearchable,  pro- 
found. 


102 


OTWAY   CURRY. 


( 


Forth  rush  the  wandering  comets ;    girt 

with  flamo8 
They  blend,  in  order  true,  with  marshaling 

hosts 
Of  starrj  worshipers.     The  unhallowed 

orbs 
Of  earth4)oni  fire,  that  cleave  the  hazy  air, 
Blanched  by  the  flood  of  uncreated  light, 
Fly  with  the  fleeting  winds  and  misty  clouds 
Back  to  their  homes,  and  deep  in  darkness 

lie. 

God  joomeyeth  in  the  heavens.    Reful- 
gent stars. 
And  glittering  crowns  of  prostrate  Serar 

phim 
Emboss  hb  burning  path.    Around  him  fall 
Dread  powers,  dominions,  hosts,  and  kingly 

thrones. 
Angels  of  €vod — adoring  millions — join 
With  spirits  pure,  redeemed  from  distant 

worlds, 
In  choral  songs  of  praise:   ''Thee  we 

adore, 
For  Thou  art  mighty.    Everlasting  spheres 
Of  light  and  glory  in  thy  presence  wait 
Time,  space,  life,  light,  dominion,  mlge^ty, 
Truth,  wisdom — all  are  thine,  Jehovah! 

Thou 
First,  last,  supreme,  eternal  Potentate!" 


THE  GREAT  HEREAFTER. 

Ti8  sweet  to  think,  when  struggling 

The  goal  of  life  to  win. 
That  just  beyond  the  shores  of  time 

The  better  days  begin. 

When  through  the  nameless  ages 

I  I'ast  my  longing  eyi»s, 
Bi'fore  me,  like  a  boundless  sea. 

The  Great  Hereafter  lies. 


Along  its  brimming  bosom 
Perpetual  summer  miileay 

And  gathers,  like  »  goMen  robti 
Around  the  emerakl  iilei. 

There  in  the  blue  kmg  iHstaace^ 
By  lulling  breeses  fiuniedy 

I  seem  to  sec  the  flowering  gnm 
Of  old  Beulah't  land. 

And  far  beyond  the  blanda 
That  gem  the  wave  serene. 

The  image  of  the  doudkas  shor 
Of  holy  Heaven  is 


Unto  the  Great  Hereafter — 
Aforetime  cUm  and  dark^ 

I  freely  now  and  gladly,  give 
Of  life  the  wandering  buk. 

And  in  the  far-off  haven, 
When  shadowy  seas  are 

By  angel  hands  its  quivering 
Shall  all  be  ftiricd  at  last! 


LINGS  OF  THE  LIFE  TO  001 

Our  spirit  seeks  a  flir-off  dime^ 

All  beautiful  and  pure. 
Whore  living  light  and  sinleas  tioH 

Forevermore  endure. 

We  spond  our  long  and  weary  hn 
In  drfHiiiing  of  that  shore, 

Whore  all  those  perished  hopes  of 
Have  swiftly  gone  befbie* 

And  do  you  yearn  and  strive  in  va 
To  rend  the  enshrouding  pall. 

That  round  ns,  in  this  life  of  pnin^ 
Lies  like  a  dungeon  wall? 

Ye:* !  for  it  clogs  our  halting  tbong 
And  dim.4  our  feeble  light  9-* 

How  hardly  is  our  spirit  taught 
To  sluipe  its  upward  flight. 


OTWAY  CUBBY. 


103 


e  with  earthly  imagings 
kch  and  understand 
drous  and  the  fearful  things 
Eternal  Land. 

of  amaranthine  bowers, 
iving  groves  of  palm, 
f  crowns,  and  fadeless  fiowers, 
kies  forev^  calm. 

of  wings  and  raiment  white, 
•illared  thrones  of  gold, 
»  built  of  jewels  bright, 
[  the  heavens,  of  old. 

e  things  worse  than  fancy's  plaj  ? 
ley,  in  very  deed, 
soul's  guerdon,  far  away, 
3rlasting  meed  ? 

the  spirit,  in  its  flight 
id  the  stars  sublime, 
ing  but  the  radiance  white 
ver-ending  time  ? 

Dgs  material  change  again, 
rhoUy  be  forgot  ? 
ad  us  only  God  remain, 
verse  of  thought? 

¥  not  well — ^we  cannot  know, 
3ason's  glimmering  light 
ling  but  the  darkness  show 
r  surrounding  night 

I  the  doubt,  and  toil,  and  strife, 
rth  shall  all  be  done, 
wledge  of  our  endless  life 
a  moment  won. 


CHASIDINE. 

I.KED  she  for  a  few  brief  years 
I  land  of  toil  and  tears, 
a  patient  hope  preparing 
'or  the  holiest  spheres. 


Never  with  the  pure  one  strove 
Spirit  of  a  sinful  love. 
For  her  soul  was  filled  with  dreamings 
Of  its  home  above. 

Joyed  she  heavenly  seed  to  sow. 
In  the  midst  of  tears  and  woe. 
Growing  oft,  as  ofl  the  flowers 
In  the  rains  do  grow. 

Stood  she  near  the  nightly  gloom 
Of  the  slumber  of  the  tomb. 
Planting  hopes  that  shall  not  wither 
Till  the  morning  come. 

Sung  she  with  melodious  tongue, 
Heaving  human  hearts  among, 
Happy  songs,  like  those  in  Eden, 
By  the  sinless  sung. 

But  she  might  not  always  sing. 
Where  of  time  the  travailing  wing 
Wears  away  and  renders  soundless 
Each  "silvery  string. 

Fainter  grew  the  lingering  lay, 
As  the  gliding  years  gave  way, 
Till  the  pale  and  fragile  singer 
Could  no   longer  stay. 

Nevermore  the  grief  to  share 
Which  the  mortal  millions  bear. 
She  has  entered  where  the  weary 
Cease  from  toil  and  care. 

Gathered  to  the  viewless  coast — 
Numbered  with  the  shining  host, 
Vain  is  every  earthly  sorrow 
For  the  early  lost 

Words  of  long  and  loving  cheer 
Lefl  she  for  my  sad  soul  here. 
I  shall  in  the  bright  world  coming, 
By  her  side  appear. 

When  the  dimless  noon  shall  shine 
On  immortal  eyes  of  mine, 
I  shall  see  her  in  her  beauty. 
In  the  light  divine. 


104 


OTWAY   CURRY. 


(W 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  "  LORE  OF  THE 

FAi>T."* 

Earth  has  no  voice  of  solemn-sounding 

chime 
But  wakes  some  memory  of  the  hrows  tliat 

wore 
The  crowning  impress  of  immortal  thought, 
And  eloquent  lips,  whose  thrilling  tones 

were  caught 
By  listening  nations ;  caugtit  from  age  to 

And  joyfully  on  many  a  during  page 
Engraven  all :  through  every  change  un- 

quelled 
Their  spirit  strove,  unceasingly  impelled 
By  the  quick  impulse  of  unsleeping  zeal 
To  grasp  the  hoary  infinite, — to  unseal 
The  hidden  mysteries  of  eternal  space ; 
The  footsteps  of  Omnipotence  to  trace 

Through  untold  |)oriods,  hack 
Along  tliat  shadowy  and  eternal  track, 
Where  first  the  grand  and  solemn  music 

rang 
Of  worlds  that  from  the  womb  of  primal 

chaos  sprang. 

The  wondrous  laws  that  force 
Tlie  winging  winds  along  tlieir  viewless 

course; 
Tliat  prompt  the  furrows  of  the  teeming 

field 
Tlie  treasures  of  the  waving  com  to  yield ; 
And,  when  the  summer  sunshine   inter- 

w«»ave8 
It.<«  gulden  hues  among  the  forest  leaves, 
Su!«|>cnd  the  fruitage  and  tlie  bloomy  gem;* 
In    quivering   brightness   on   the   {tensile 

stems ; 
That  strew  with  glittering  ore  the  caves 

profound. 


*  A  porm  d4>UTen>d  brfhre  th»  Union  I.ltnmrj  SorlHy  of 
Il.inoTrr  t'l.llripp,  ImlUok,  •!  Itn  Fifth  AnniTvnary,  Srp- 
Imitfr.  IS.T— imtilt^httt  hy  th«  Svirtt  —  JtHllrmtcd  bj  Ihrj 
•ulhiir  to  WllliMB  It  <iAllacher,  **m  a  awaMnloof  aMlyj 
awl  «iMlurlag  fri«iMlPhlp." 


And  jeweled  mansions  of  the  ander  gr 
And  quickening  breath  to  myriad  1 

bestow, 
Whose  life  and  motHm  in  the  regions  | 
Whereon  the  waves  of  time  like  edi 

waters  flow : 

AH,  all  are  mingled  in  that  dmngefii] 
Whose  fame  is  deathless,  bat  whose 

is  o'er : — 
Fond  hope,  to  purify  the  toiling  mind 
And  work  the  lasting  weal  of  homan 
Forgetful  of  the  ills  and  wnmga  that 
And  clog  the  spirit  in  its  upward  fligl 
Forgetful  that  the  unassisted  might 
Of  science  never  yet  on  emrthly  groa 
The  priceless  meed  of  happiness  hath  i 

In  other  days  there  came 
A  Herald  to  the  sons  of  men,  whooe : 
Was  sung  by  seraphs  with  their  hnr 

gold 
In  the  high  heavens  of  Mm 
He  gave  to  life  a  balm  for  all  ita  ilb- 
He  soothed  the  mourner  with  hit 

divine ; 
And  there  was  gladness  in  the  Ifau 

rilU, 
And  peerless  beanty  on  the  rocky  hfl 

Of  palmy  Palestine. 
He  taught  the  straggling  toiler  for  the 
Of  undecaying  happiness,  above 
Tlie  groveling  strife  of  passion  to  ari 
And  with  the  angel-ministrj  of  loTe, 
And  the  bland  light  of  virtue  to  adoi 
The  pathway  of  the  traveler  to  that  boi 
Where  S<*i«»nce,  radiant  as  the  early « 
R(*posi's  witli  her  starred  and  hea' 

plumage  on. 

Through  every  land  and  sea, 
Even  as  the  unregarded  breeaes  flee, 
Tliat  precept  of  immortal  troth  wm  1 

Amidst  the  pride  and  soom 
iVnd  turmoil  ot*a  world  that  wonld  notl 
A  world  whose  every  dime 


OrWAY   CURRY. 


105 


e  Intolerance,  with  alternate  sway, 
iolate  alwaj. 


ud  and  saUen  peal 

3  artilleiy,  and  the  frequent  clang 

g  tramp  and  keenlj-glancing  steel 

ir  the  hill,  where  freedom's  pil- 

18  sang 

mn  of  gladness  in  the  olden  time, 

t  their  forest  clime 

ed  the  onset  of  the  invading  horde ; 

ant  from  the  hills  and  valleys 

«d 

ying  ranks  of  freedom's  chivalry, 

be  dread  melee, 

ishing  sword  and  serried  bayonet 

tm  lines  in  clashing  conflict  met. 

any  a  streamlet  shore, 

ly  a  cnrdling  wave  and  smoking 

1 

'kly  crimson,  while  the  sprinkling 

lown  like  summer  rain, 

larsh  din  of  stormy  battle  clove 

irching  concave,  in  whose  light 

led  minions  of  ambition  strove 

ihn  in  gloomiest  night 

bright  star  of  hope,  whose  gllm- 

ngray 

>mise  to  the  world  of  freedom's 

gday. 

r-off  climes  beheld, 
pk  days  of  toU,  that  hope  forlorn 
ith  fierce  intolerance  overborne, 
rshaled  and  resistlessly  impelled 
rong  hand  of  heaven,  their  bright 

r, 

on-rushing  tempest,  swept  away 

n's  minions  to    their  doom  of 

le, 

hymns  of  victory  clave 

1  expanses  of  the  world,  and  gave 

bt  glory's  scroll  its  brightest  name, 

lie  firmament  a  new-bom  star  of 


How  calm,  how  holy  is  the  undreaming 

sleep 
Of  freedom's  martyrs  when  their  homes 

are  won; 
And  hallowed  are  the  gory  graves  that  keep 
The  cerements  of  the  patriot  dust  which 

down 
In  living  hope  is  laid, 
Beneath  the  unfolded  splendor  and  the 

shade 
Of  star-lit  banners  and  bright  eagle-wings, 

Whose  brilliant  woof  upsprings. 
Where  late   the  lightning  of  the  battle 

played ; 
While  far  alofl  the  sulphurous  mists  that 

rise 
Seem  clinging  in  the  clouds  like  flowers  of 

sacrifice. 

Then  turn  thee  to  the  past- 
Sublime,  immortal,  vast  I 
Lorn  gamer  of  the  wrecks  that  evermore 
Forth  from  the  windings  of  the  shadowy 

shore 
Of  present  life  are  cast 
Among  its  fanes  and  phantom   temples 

walk 
Till  all  its  frowning  heroes  round  thee 

stalk. 
Till  fitfully  its  dream-like  melodies 
Come  chiming  like  the  sound  of  whispering 

seas. 
And  its  unfading  memories,  deeply  fraught 
With  all  life's  lessons,  meet  thy  spirit's 

thought. 
There  win  that  wisdom  which  alone  is 

trae; 
Which  lives  forever  in  the  chastening  view 
Of  sinless  virtue  and  of  infinite  love — 
Erst  dimly  symboled  by  the  elyeian  dove. 
So  shall  a  holier  life-spring,  in  thy  heart 
Like  murmuring  waters,  wake ;  and  thou 

shalt  go 
Forth  to  perform  thy  brief  and  changeful 

part 
In  this  wide  world  of  woe. 


106 


OTWAY  CURRY. 


[lb3M 


THE  1/)j3T  PLEIAD. 

^IILLIC)NS  of  agi'A  gone, 
Didst  thou  sun'ivv,  in  thy  enthrone<I  place, 
AmicLit  the  astsemblieA  of  the  sturry  ruce, 

Still  shiuiiig  on — and  on. 

And  even  in  earthly  time 
Thy  [Kirting  beams  their  olden  radiance 

won*, 
And  ^*eted,  from  tlio  dim  cerulean  ohore, 

The  old  Clialdean  clime. 

Sji;r<*s  and  p0i»tfl,  strong 
To  ri>e  and  walk  the  waveles;*  firmament, 
Ohidlv  to  thee  their  richest  oif('rin<n«  zsent, 

Of  cIo<[uence  an<l  song. 

Hut  thy  fur  tiowing  li;;ht, 
Bv  timi'V  mvsteriou"*  .shadows  ovon-ast, 
8tnui«r**1y  and  dimly  fadtMl  at  the  last, 

Into  a  namelezM  niglit. 


Along  the  cx|Kinse  sen'ne. 
Of  clustVv  an'h  and  con^ttdhitiMl  zone. 


ADJURATION. 

I  ADjrRF.  thee — I  abjure  thee, 

By  the  memory  of  the  pttst. 
Think  not  thou  of  real  or  respite 

From  the  burden  on  thee  casL 
Quietude  of  dreiunless  slamber, 

Hope  of  cloudle;4  years  to  thee 
lionned  and  banished  and  fbrtnikleOy 

Shall  but  names  ideal  be. 

Gone  is  that  bright  eve  fbrever 

In  the  which  we  lingered  knig* 
Walking  green  suburban  gardeiu, 

Severed  fnim  the  city*8  throng — 
When  Iieneath  our  footiitepA  bended 

Floweret-s  of  the  early  year. 
And  th<*  sunset's  falling  crinuoa 

Faintly  touched  the  young  leavet  oe 


Then  amidst  tlie  lonely  onirie 

Of  the  frales  that  round  us  stirred, 

!Unf<)rf;otten  wonis  were  spoken, 

-, ,     ,.  ,  . ,    .      .     ^•ow  unsvlUibled,  unlieard. 

A\  ith  oHmmI  sands  ot  tremulous  jroldoer-i  .    ,        i«  i!   i    .        .i.        a 

*^  :  And  we  telt  that  we  thereatter 

To  a  heavier  life  should 


htrown. 

No  more  csinst  thou  be  S4*en. 


,  Wak(*  on  many  a  Mul  to-morrow 
AVliich  might  better  never  break* 


Sav  whither  wimd'rest  thou  ? 
I>ounM'en  heavens  thy  distant  path  illume?! 
Or  pn»«!«  the  shades  tif  everlasting  gloom    .Think^st  thou  ever — ^when  the  sunshine 

Darkly  upon  thee  now?  M(M*ks  thee  with  its  setting  gIow-» 

/rhiiikest  thou  of  that  sad  sunset. 
Around  th.^,  far  awuy,  ;      ^y,,;^.,,  ^  ^„„,j„^  ^y  ^  ^^^^p 

Tli..  luwy  milk*  of  nui1titn.Iiii.>us  spluro.*,    Ay.^thou  canxt  not  but  remember: 

Pen'liMni'e,  are  gatherin;r   to  pn)Ioiig  the 
yejirs 

Of  thy  unwilling  stay. 


And  in  silen(*e  thou  wik  grieve 
At  the  never-fading  memory 
Of  thiit  unri'tuming  eve. 

Sa<lly  our  thou;;hts  rehearse 
The  .t.Ty  of  thy  wild  luid  wondnni?  flight'  ^'^  *•**'  linsrering  seasons  pass  thee 
Thro'  the  deep  desiTts  of  the  ancient  night  I      ^^'*  <*"'  '*>™  **-^>'*  rwe  and  set, 

And  farnitf  universe.  '•-^*'* ;»';'"  **"7  l"^*^  «^  *«»^e  »»« 

Strinni;  vainly  to  forget. 

We  fall — wf  call  ther  Un-k,  >  In  thy  thuu/ht  strong  fate  forever 

And  Mni4  of  many  a  eo:isii*|la(ion  bright,    •      Shall  t*om|H*l  a  plai?e  for  me-^ 

Shall  wiavt- the  wa\i'M»rtli«'ir  illuming  light  In  thy  soul's  most  seeret  preaeooe 


O'er  thv  n 'turn in;;  tnick. 


I      Still  unhidtlen  will  I  be. 


40.] 


OTWAY  CURRY. 


107 


TO  A  MIDNIGHT  PHANTOM. 

E,  melancholy  one, 

hj  art  thou  Imgering  here, 

lorial  of  dark  ages  gone, 

ztM  of  darkness  near? 

I  stand'st  immortal,  ondefiled — 

I  thou,  the  unknown,  the  strange,  the 

wild, 

»ell-word  of  mortal  fear. 

1  art  a  shadowy  form, 
dream-like  thing  of  air; 
rery  sighs  thy  robes  defoim, 
)  frail,  so  passing  fair ; 
crown  is  of  the  fabled  gems, 
bright  ephemeral  diadems 
lat  unseen  spirits  wear. 

I  hast  revealed  to  me 
le  lore  of  phantom  song, 
1  thy  wild,  fearful  melody, 
liming  the  whole  night  long 
bodings  of  untimely  doom, 
orrowing  years  and  dying  gloom, 
id  unrequited  wrong. 

»ugh  all  the  dreary  night, 
line  icy  hands,  that  now 
to  the  brain  their  maddening  blight, 
ave  pressed  upon  my  brow — 
frenzied  thoughts  all  wildly  blend 
1  spell-wrought  shapes  that  round  me 
wend, 

•  down  in  mockery  bow. 

y,  pale  form,  away — 
le  break  of  mom  is  nigh, 
&r  and  dim,  beyond  the  day, 
le  eternal  night-glooms  lie : 
thou  a  dweller  in  the  dread 
mbly  of  the  mouldering  dead, 

•  in  the  worlds  on  high  ? 

:hou  of  the  blue  waves, 

•  of  yon  starry  clime — 


An  inmate  of  the  ocean  graves. 

Or  of  the  heavens  sublime  ? 
Is  thy  mysterious  place  of  rest 
The  eternal  mansions  of  the  blest, 
Or  the  dim  shores  of  time? 

Hast  thou  forever  won 
A  high  and  glorious  name, 

And  proudly  grasped  and  girdled  on 
The  panoply  of  fame  ? 

Or  wanderest  thou  on  weary  wing, 

A  lonely  and  a  nameless  thing. 
Unchangingly  the  same  ? 

Thou  answerest  not     The  sealed 
And  hidden  things  that  lie 

Beyond  the  grave,  are  unrevealed. 
Unseen  by  mortal  eye. 

Thy  dreamy  home  is  all  unknown, 

For  spirits  freed  by  death  alone 
May  win  the  viewless  sky. 


THE  CLOSING  YEAR.' 

The  year  has  reached  its  evening  tune. 

And  well  its  closing  gloom 
May  warn  us  of  the  lonely  night 

That  gathers  round  the  tomb. 

But  many  a  distant  year  and  age 

May  slowly  come  and  go. 
Before  the  sleepers  of  the  grave 

Another  spring-time  know. 

And  yet,  beyond  the  gloomy  vale. 
Where  death's  dark  river  flows, 

On  sunniest  shores  our  faith  is  fixed — 
Our  deathless  hopes  repose. 

We  trust  that  when  the  night  of  time 

Shall  into  morning  break, 
We  shall,  from  long  and  heavy  sleep. 

With  song  and  gladness  wake. 


•NowflntpuUUalMd. 


I  OK 


OTWAY   CURRY 


[163&-4IL 


AAVEX.* 

Aavkn  of  the  uncounted  yours — 

Aaven  of  the  sleepless  eye- 
Wanderer  of  the  uncounte<l  years- 
Outcast  of  the  earth  and  ^ky— > 
Wom  of  life  and  weary  grown, 
Turned  him  to  the  shore  unknown. 

Ro90  before  him,  stem  and  stark, 
One  with  adamantine  wand — 

Warder  of  the  portal  dark — 
Portal  of  the  unknown  land : 

And  the  warder,  weird  and  grim, 

Barred  the  portal,  dubk  and  dim. 

^  Wanded  warder,  list  to  me ! 

Tis  a  weary  thing  to  roam 
0*er  the  earth  and  oVr  the  sea, 

Tarrying  till  the  Mu.*>t(T  come. 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  i«ea. 
Turn  my  wandering  steps  to  tliee. 

^Lend  me  through  the  8unless  land, 
And  the  sable  cities  vae't. 

Where  the  silent  myriads  stand- 
Myriads  of  tlie  ages  past 

Swit\  along  the  shadowy  coast, 

8|>eed  me — speed  me  to  the  lost  I " 

''Never,**  said  the  warder  grim, 
**  Till  the  gathering  night  of  time 

Shalt  thou  iMiss  the  iK>rtal  dim — 
Portal  of  the  .< unless  clime. 

Ever,  in  thy  cea^'less  quest, 

Wander,  restless,  after  rest. 

''  But  before  thy  long  and  dn*ar 
Pilgrimage  of  earth  and  main, 

Wouldst  thou  luive  the  lost  ap{H-ar 
To  thy  longing  eyes  again  ? 

Reveri>ntly  approach,  and  stand 

('lii«e  l»eside  my  waving  wand. 


•  Wntu-n  In  r«miplUnP(>  to  •  wl«h  r«prr*jifs|  hy  IM<<ta 
J*.  Nirh'iN.  ih»l  Mr  I'lirrv  mniM  rvn<lrr  Into  Trr«e  thr 
»t*»r>  «-f  Airrii'ii*.  tiir  Mai;kUn.  and  Uie  WaDdfrlof  Jew. 
Publiiibc«l  b;  her  miUer  hi*  drath. 


**And — the  swift  wand,  following 
Full  before  tliy  watching  eye, 

All  the  myriads  of  the  put. 
Age  by  age  shall  pass  thee  by. 

Hither  from  the  land  of  glooic, 

Lo !  the  countless  sleepers 


As  tlie  meteoric  glow 

Cleaves  the  curtaining  night  aihati 
Wildly  gleaming  to  and  fro^ 

Waved  the  wand  of  adamant — 
And  the  buried  ages  camei 
With  their  hosts  of  eveiy 


SwiAIy  came,  and  glided  on, 

Scepteix^d  liand  and  laureled  brow^ 
Glided  many  a  queenly  one, 

Nameless  in  the  wide  world  now. 
Murmured  Aaven,  in  his  fear, 
*'>iever  will  the  lost  appear!" 

From  tlie  ]on;]f  and  silent  sleep 

Of  remotest  ages  pone — 
Following  fa-it  the  wand's  wild  sweeps 

Came  the  long  ranks  filing 
Pass(>d  full  many  a  thronging 
Came  not  still  the  loved,  the  loaC 

Sudden,  on  the  watcher's  sight, 
Broke,  amidst  the  phantom  thr^g^ 

Beauteous  form  of  maiden  brigfal^ 
(jiliding  pensively  along: 

And  the  wondering  warder^s  hand 

Stilled  the  adamantine  wand* 

Wildly,  as  the  vision  came, 

Aav4*n  from  the  warder  sprang; 

And  the  >o\uu\  of  Miriam's  name 
ThnMi^h  the  world  of  shadows  m^ 

Aav^n,  to  his  sail  heart  there, 

Chu^jK'il  alone  the  lifeless  air. 

Fell  the  a<Lmiantine  wand — 

Keehnl  the  portal,  dask  and  dim^ 

Failed  tUr  the  Unknown  LAnd, 
And  th«*  wand«Hl  wanler  grim:  — 

Miriam  th'<l  from  earthly  shore. 

And  in>m  Aaven,  evermore. 


JOHN  B.  DILLON. 


John  Brown  Dillon  is  a  native  of  Brooke  county,  Virginia.  Wliile  he  was  an 
infant  his  father  removed  to  Belmont  county,  Ohio.  There  John  had  the  opportunites 
of  education  which  a  country  school,  at  winter  sessions  afforded,  until  he  had  learned 
what  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic  are.  But  he  was  only  nine  years  of  age  when  his 
&ther  died.  He  was  then  compelled  to  earn  his  own  livelihood,  and  he  returned  to 
the  ooun^  of  his  nativity,  in  Virginia,  and  apprenticed  himself  to  a  printer  at  Charles- 
ton. At  seventeen  years  of  age,  with  no  fortune  hut  his  compositor's  rule  and  a  good 
knowledge  of  its  use,  he  went  to  Cincinnati,  seeking  work. 

While  an  apprentice  he  had  cultivated  a  natural  taste  for  poetry,  and  had  occasion- 
ally contributed  verses  to  the  newspapers  for  which  he  set  type.  In  1826  he  contrib- 
uted a  poem  to  the  Cincinnati  Gazette,  which  inunediately  gave  him  a  prominent 
position  as  a  poet,  among  the  young  men  who  then  wooed  the  Muse  in  the  Queen 
City.    It  was  "The  Burial  of  tiie  Beautiful." 

In  1827  Mr.  Dillon  contributed  occasionally  to  Flings  Western  Review,  and  he 
wrote  "The  Orphan's  Lament"  for  The  Western  Souvenir  in  1829.  In  December, 
1831,  he  formed  a  partnership  with  William  D.  Grallaghcr  for  the  composition  of  a 
New  Year's  Lay  for  the  carrier  of  the  Cincinnati  Jldirror,  The  lines  on  "The 
Funeral  of  the  Tear"  are  from  that  Lay. 

In  1834  Mr.  Dillon  went  from  Cincinnati  to  Logansport,  Indiana.     There,  while 

editing  a  newspaper,  and  oflen  "working  at  case,"  he  continued  studies  which  he  had 

begun  in  Cincinnati ;  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  began  the  practice  of  law.     He  had, 

however,  more  love  for  literature  than  for  law,  though  he  did  oflen  exercise  his  poetic 

abilities.     Local  history  deeply  interested  him,  and  after  a  few  preliminary  studies  he 

determined  to  write  "A  History  of  Indiana."     In  1842  he  published  a  small  volume 

of  "Historical  Notes."    In  1845  he  was  elected  State  Librarian  of  Indiana,  an  office 

which  he  held  with  credit  to  himself  and  profit  to  the  State  for  several  terms.     He 

has  since  been  actively  identified  with  popular  education  in  Indiana,  has  been  a  useful 

officer  of  one  or  more  of  the  benevolent  institutions,  and  for  a  number  of  years  was 

the  Secretary  of  the  State  Board  of  Agriculture. 

Meantime  his  historical  studies  were  carefully  pursued,  and  in  1859  the  result  of 
them  was  given  to  the  world,  by  Bingham  and  Doughty,  publishers,  Indianapolis,  in 
an  octavo  volume  of  636  pages,  which  is  called  "A  History  of  Indiana,"  but  which 
comprehends  a  history  of  the  discovery,  settlement,  and  civil  and  military  affairs  of 
the  North-West  Territory,  as  well  as  a  general  view  of  the  progress  of  public  affairs 
b  the  State  of  Indiana,  from  1816  to  1856. 

Mr.  Dillon  is  now  the  Secretary  of  the  Indiana  Historical  Society.     To  the  duties 

of  that  post  he  gives  attention  with  conmiendable  zeal,  which  cannot  fail  to  make  the 

Library  of  the  Society  valuable  to  every  student  of  Western  History. 

(109) 


110 


JOHN   B.    DILLON. 


[lK3«-« 


■And  m}*ria4ls  yicldiM]  up  their  breath. 
As  the  haggard  ibrm  of  the  tynwt  deaib 

On  the  rotting  bnwze  swept  bj. 
And  the  lovely  green  tliat  ovenpread 

The  world  in  itA  guilt leM  day, 
Grew   as  deeply  dark,  and  seared,  v 
dead,  ^. 

As  the  parched  earth,  where  it  lay. 
With  lifeless  limbs  the  li\*id  trees 

Stood  locked  in  the  arms  of  death. 
Save  one,  timt  still  to  the  withering  htm 

Could  lend  its  |ioisonous  breath. 
Deeply  the  world,  in  that  drear  time, 
Felt  the  deadly  curse  of  sin  and 


THE  PROriltT'S  DREAM. 

WiiEKE    fell    the   palm-tree's    clui^tering 
sliade. 

The  aged  and  weary  prophet  lay, 
And  o*er  his  fevenni  temples  played 

The  freshness  of  the  primal  day. 
He  slept — iuid  on  his  spirit  fell 

A  vision  of  the  tiighi  of  time — 
lie  saw  u|ion  the  future  dwell 

A  dark*uing  cloud  of  sin  and  crime. 

Gone  were  the  spirits  tliat  lingered  near 

The  world  in  its  early  bloom. 
And  hope's  pure  light,  that  was  wont  to 
cheer, 
Grew  dim  in  the  gathering  gloom ; 
And  love  from  earth  was  hurFd — 
And  a  maiuUite  ciune, 
In  a  breath  of  fliune, 
To  scourge  a  sinful  world. 

"  I^et  the  sword  go  forth  I  " — and  forth  it 

went. 
And  gleamed  o  er  tower  and  battlement. 

And  ghmced  in  tlie  tented  Held ; 
And  helms  were  clctl,  and  shi<4ds  were 

broke, 
Anci  bIva^ls  were  bared  to  the  battle-stroke, 

Only  in  death  to  yield : 
Tiie  warriors  met — but  not  to  |)art — 

And  the  Mm  glan-d  redly  on  the  s<vne : 

And  the  broken  sword,  and  the  tranipk'd '  . , ,      _^.  ,  r     t       ^ir     •      i. 

'  '       I  Old  earth  was  lone — for  her  offapnng  b 

,,.*^     \,      ,  ,     ,      ,  ,t    ,  Mouldf ring  <hirk  on  her  bosom  of  daj- 

Mi^ht   tell  where   the  l>atth»-steed  had        .,,  „  ,.^  11.. 

•^  .All  lon«'s  of  life  were  hushed — 

,^    ,        /.,...  .11  :  And  till*  bnizen  tomlwof  sepulcheredmi 

Dark  and  still,  bv  the  mourns  iMih-  lH.'am,    !„,.    .  ,    ,,i    ,  ,1        .  i .    r  *•       --n  *u 

, ,    ;       ,  /  .      .  '  lliJit  battled  the  mijrht  of  time  till  then, 

I^iv    inoiildcnM^r  iK'uiM  01    slaui'lttf n*d .       41.  1    > 

'^         '  "  :      Atom  bv  atom  were  crushed— 

"~[  And  ilf'-olato  round  in  its  oridt  whirTd 

, ,     .,  ...       IIh' in-opl'-U'^*  wriTkof  awom-ont  worl 

Laitli  ilraiik  the*   bnuMl  ol   her  i»lNpni>^' 

llicn. 

TIk'  tlrcMiiiiT  wnkf,  and  the  ghirious  day 


^  Famine  go  forth ! " — and  at  the  name, 

Ilose  a  feeble  shriek,  and  a  fearful  hog 

And  a  tottering,  fleshless  monster  came, 

The  lingering  stream  of  life  to  qnaff- 

And  he  stalk'd  o'er  the  earth,  and  the  k 

guid  crowds 
Were  crusird  to  the  dust  in  their  mOdev 

shrouds : 
Thf*n  rose  the  last  of  human  groana, 
As  the  shriveled  skin  hung  loose  on  t 
bones. 
And  the  stream  of  life  was  gone. 
And  dcatli  expired  on  that  awful  daj. 
Where  his  &Uiughtered  millions  round  h 
lav, 
For  his  fearful  task  was  done* 


**  (In  Inrth  di-ia-i!" — ami  at  tli'*  w<)nl. 


Ilri»k<»  ralmlv  cm  his  dn*um— 


Til'-  ;jri»:iii-  nf  a  -triikiii  wnrM  wm-  lifard.  Aiiil  tin-  j«>n«hi''  h\nU  tnun  cnrh  green  spn 
Ami  tin-  viHif  of  wiM-  ni*e  lii-'h —  I     CandM  thrir  niominsr  hvmi>^ 


40.1 


JOHN   B.  DILLON. 


Ill 


earth  stiU  moved  in  beauty  there, 

ith  its  clustering  groves  and  emerald 

plains, 

the  pure  breeze  bore  the  Prophet's 

prayer 

» the  throne  where  the  Rock  of  Ages 

reigns. 


BURIAL  OP  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

:be  shall  the  dead,  and  the  beautiful, 
sleep? 

le  vale  where  the  willow  and  cypress 
weep; 

re  the  wind  of  the  west  breathes  its 
softest  sigh ; 

re  the  silvery  stream  is  flowing  nigh, 
the  pure,  clear  drops  of  its  rising 
sprays 

er   like  gems  in  the  bright  moon's 
rays — 

re  the  sun's  warm  smile  may  never 
dispel 

it's  tears  o'er  the  form  we  loved  so 
well — 

be  vale  where  the  sparkling  waters 
flow; 

re  die  fairest,  earliest  violets  grow ; 
re  the  sky  and  the  earth  are  softly  fair ; 
Bury  her  there — bury  her  there  I 

re  shall  the  dead,  and  the  beautiful, 
sleep? 

re  wild  flowers  bloom  in  the  valley 
deep; 

re  the  sweet  robes  of  spring  may  soft- 
ly rest, 

[irity,  over  the  sleeper's  breast: 
re  is  heard  the  voice  of  the  sinless 
dove, 

thing  notes  of  deep  and  undying  love ; 
re  no  column  proud  in  the  sun  may 
glow, 
lock  the  heart  that  is  resting  below ; 


Where  pure  hearts  are  sleeping,  forevex 

blest; 
Where  wandering  Peril  love  to  rest ; 
Where  the  sky  and  the  earth  are  soflly  fair, 
Bury  her  there — ^bury  her  there ! 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  THE  YEAR. 

Come  to  the  funeral  of  the  year  I 

Not  with  spirits  worn  by  sadness — 
Bring  no  sigh — and  shed  no  tear — 

Chant  the  song  of  joy  and  gladness. 
Let  the  dead  year  find  the  tomb 

That  many  a  year  hath  found  before  it, 
Hidden  in  the  past's  dark  gloom, 

And  Lethe's  waters  flowing  o'er  it 

And  other  years  will  still  press  on, 

Bearing,  upon  each  lovely  morrow, 
A  calmer  sky-t-a  clearer  sun — 

And  fewer  cups  of  human  sorrow. 
Learning's  star  shall  brightly  glow, 

As  science  hidden  truths  discloses — 
Purer  streams  of  light  shall  flow 

Where  superstition  now  reposes. 

Still  the  rose-bud  will  expand 

O'er  the  dimpled  cheek  of  beauty. 
And  the  callous  "  single  band  " 

Turn  fi*om  waywardness  to  duty — 
Love's  frail  chain  wiU  firmer  bind 

Hearts  that  wear  the  rosy  fetter ; 
And  each  coming  year  will  find 

Mankind  truer,  kinder,  better. 

The  demagogue  will  cease  to  be, 

As  he  has  been,  his  own  extoller ; 
And  Freedom's  land  be  really  free. 

With  none  to  wear  the  "  golden  collar ; " 
And  patriot's  names  will  not  be  made 

The  scoff  and  jest  of  tavern  brawlers — 
And  statesmen's  fame  will  not  be  weigh'd 

Against  the  rant  of  daily  scrawlers. 


112 


JOHN   B.  DILLON. 


[ISaiMI. 


To  fumeV  bright  temple  mirn  have  made 

III  iHtter  days  some  madden'd  ruslics, 
And  wrote  names  there  o*er  which,  'tis  said, 

The  goddess  of  the  temple  blushes ! 
No  matter*i^ark*ning  jeare  will  glide 

O'er  all  M'hioh  fame  can  never  cherish, 
And  whateVr  folly  raise<l  in  pri<lo. 

Like  all  of  folly's  works,  will  perish. 


THE  ORPHAN'S  HARP. 

Thr  harp  of  tlie  orphan  is  mute  and  still, 

And  its  notes  will  cheer  us  never ; 
For  she  who  crmid  waken  its  dee|H'st  thrill, 

Lies  voiceh'ss  and  cold,  forever ! 
She  sleeps  in  the  vale,  where  violet-*  bloom. 

And  the  wild  rose  twines  al>ove  her: — 
No    frien<is    to  lament   o'er  her    hapless 
doom — 

No  kindred  to  pity,  or  love  her. 


Iler    harp    hangs    alone  >--iU    mwic   ii 
hushed, 
And  will  waken  no  more  on  the  nomv; 
For  tlie  heart  that  loved  ita  tooety  wit 
crushed, 
By  its  own  deep  weight  of  sorrow. 
No  high  is  breathed  o'er  her  kmely  tomb- 
No  eyes  are  dim  with  weeping ; 
But  the  violet,  and  the  wild  rot^  bloom 
O'er  the  grave   where   the   oqihan  k 
sleeping. 


I 


STANZAS. 

I   KNOW  there  are  puijgs,  which  rend 
the  breast,  ! 

When  youth  and  love  haTe  vaiu^hcd.  : 
When  fix>m  its  gloricms  place  to  rert,        ' 

Hope's  bunished-* 


Her  cheek  wore  a  bloom  in  her  early  day,  l^"^  ^^  *'^">^  n<>^  ^  sad,  where  the  701111K 
Ere  the  tear  of  sorrow  started,  '    '         ^^'^  *'*^  ^^y 

Or  cliildhood's  bright  drt^ams  \m\  fiuled  ^'^^  ^*»^  '^^^  ^^  ***«  «»»•  <*«  *^ 
j^^.jjy  I         sorrow  away; 

An.l  Ifrt  her  broken-hearted.  I^^'**^"*  ^'*^'  ^•*»*'^^'*  °^  «*»«  <>*4  as  they  goe 

The  kui.l  look  of  pitv, or  affection, smiled  ^"  *'»**  '^*"'*' 

On  th»*  desolate  orjihan  never ;  ^^  ^'J?>»'<*^  ^■*^*»  ^™'^***'  "^^^  K"*^*  *»• 

Love*!*   sweet   illusion  her   heart  had  be-; 

;;uilrti — 


rows  liave  been. 


I         TIm'Ii  left  it  in  gloom  forever ! 


Ye  •should  cliant  the  song  in  the  fertm 
hall, 
Wlirn*  the  tide  of  joy  is  flowing; 
W*ere  tin*  young  and  fair  at  pleumv*t 
call, 

Come  glowing. 


The    di*|ith    of  her   anguish   none   could 

know —  j 

ILt  cinotions  nrvrr  were  spoken  ;  j 

Hut  tlir  liopi'of  hcavt-n  a  gleam  ran  throw; 

Of  joy,  o'rr  tlie  In^art  that  is  brok(*n. 

SIm*   parsed  from   earth,  likt*  the  |M'nsivf  If  ye  would  not  live  on  thro' ninleat 

li^ht,  Tlie  unlovM  Ion**  wn*ck  of  time  and 

Whii'h  ^Iiuvlv  fiidi's  at  even;  Ye  .should  join  \hv  mirth  of  the  fair  and 

And    h'T  -jMitU-'i'S    spint    hath    win;:***!   its  fn-e, 

tliirYit,  In  the   bowers  of  love — in  the  halb  ef 

T«)  its  own  bri;:lit  hi»nie  in  heavi'n.  I  gl«*e. 


NATHANIEL  WRIGHT. 


NATHAiasL  Wright  was  bom  at  Hanover,  New  Hampshire,  on  the  twenty-eighth 
daj  of  January,  1789.  He  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College  in  1811,  and  emigrated  to 
Cincinnati  in  1816.  At  the  November  term  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Ohio,  at  Steu- 
ben ville,  1817,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  He  immediately  began  the  practice  of  his 
profession,  and  was,  for  many  years,  distinguished  in  the  Hamilton  County  Courts. 
Between  1817  and  1820  he  was  one  of  a  club  of  young  men  of  literary  proclivities, 
who  contributed  articles  to  the  newspapers  of  Cincinnati  "  from  an  old  garret."  Na- 
than Guilford,  Bellamy  Storer,  and  Benjamin  F.  Powers  were  also  members  of  the 
"  Garret  Club."  "  The  Mountain  Storm  "  was  contributed  to  the  WesteTTi  Souvenir  in 
1829.  Since  briefs  first  began  to  multiply  in  his  office,  ]Mr.  Wright  has  neglected  the 
muses. 


I 


TO  A  FLY, 

WBXCH  IS  OH  HT  BOOK  DBOBXBBft  XLXTXirTH,  1818. 

Sit  down,  old  friend,  I  feel  no  spite, 
Though  conscience  tells  you  well  I  might ; 
Sit  down : — ^your  knees  are  weak  and  old. 
Your  teeth  are  chattering  with  the  cold ; 
That  leaf  shall  be  your  spacious  bed. 

And  not  a  breath  shall  harm  your  head. 

•  «  «  •  « 

Some  months  ago,  my  reverend  fiy. 
When  summer's  sun  was  in  the  sky. 
Nature  alive  and  you  were  young, 
Ton  laughed,  you  frolicked,  danced  and 

sung; 
Slept  the  short  nights  in  peace  away. 
Banquets  and  ladies  all  the  day; 
Yours  the  first  sip  from  choicest  dishes, 
Yours  the  first  glass  and  all  your  wishes. 
Scepters  and  crowns,  and  robes  of  gold, 
Your  feet  have  trampled,  proud  and  bold : 
Bosom  and  cheek  of  human  fair 
Were  oft  your  carpet  or  your  chair ; 
The  earth  was  yours  with  all  its  grace. 
The  spacious  heavens  your  dwelling-place. 
But,  ah !  the  cold  November  skies 
Made  dreadful  havoc  of  the  files ; 


Thousands  on  thousands  by  your  side 
Curled  up  their  little  legs  and  died : 
You,  left  alone,  all  pleasure  fled, 
Remain,  an  outcast  of  the  dead. 
Like  some  old  man  of  wretched  lot. 
Whom  time  has  stripped  and  death  forgot 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STORM. 


The  friend  of  ease,  in  lowland  grove. 
May  lull  his  cares,  and  tend  his  love ; 
See,  but  not  mark,  the  languid  plam, 
A  wide,  a  weAiy,  blank  domain; 
In  long  and  deep  repose  may  view 
Earth's  pleasant  green,  and  vault  of  blue, 
Till  soft  he  sinks,  with  sleep  oppressed. 
Beneath  th'  untroubled  sod  to  rest : — 
Give  me  the  scene  of  uproar  wild ! 
The  mountain  cliffs  in  rudeness  piled. 
The  summits  bold,  amid  the  sky. 
Where  the  clouds  pause,  that  journey  by ; 
Or,  as  the  storm's  hoar  torrent  spreads. 
Gambols  the  lightning  round  their  heads ; 
The  scene  untamed,  that  fills  the  breast 
With  other  feelings  far  than  rest. 
That  tempts  the  thought  to  other  charms, 
Than  Flora's  lap,  or  Morpheus'  arms, 
(113) 


8 


lU 


NATIIANIKL    WRIGHT. 


[l^:»  m. 


And  ncrws  the  huiid  to  other  deed, 
Tlnui  luve*s  eiiress  or  BaccliiUi'  meed. 

Alan — the  |Mior  insect  of  a  day  ! 
JiiAt  springs  trom  earth  to  |>ass  away, 
Flitei  from  the  siMrne  an  light  and  fast, 
Ak  the  lake's  shailows  in  the  blast : — 
liut  mark  yon  hills  I  tho^e  eliils  have  stood, 
L'nniovinl,   bince  round  them  dashed  the 

flood. 
How  many  a  race,  beneath  their  crest, 
lias  toiled  its  day,  and  gone  to  rest! 

Skirting  tli*  horizon's  verge  afar, 
And  neighlK)rs  of  the  evening  star, 
In  varied  form  of  {>eak  or  ridge, 
C)r  woody  dell,  or  naked  ledge, 
Here  with  a  fleecy  cn*st  of  cloud. 
And  there  a  dusky  grecnwoo<l  shroud ; 
Approaching  here,  till  tie  Id  and  cot 
Distinctly  mark  the  cultun'd  sjKit, — 
Ketiring  there,  and  soaring  high. 
And  soft*ning,  till  they  melt  in  sky, 
The   mountains   spread: — too   much   like 

life,— 
In  |uissing  all  turmoil  and  strife ; 
liut  seen  at  distance — |>omp  luid  pride. 
Or  joy  and  peace  by  jMirent?t*  ^ide. 

Oft,  whi»n  at  eve  the  welcome  rain 
lla^i  \v\\  its  freshness  on  the  phiin, 
A  de>ert  vast  the  dawn  will  gnvt, 
Of  sh'«'ping  cloud  Ix^neath  your  teet. 
With  here  and  tlien',  a  lonely  head 
Emerging  from  the  oc**an  U-d  ; 
All  cIm*  so  lost,  so  still,  and  fair — 
Yi»u  alnK>st  iL^k  if  earth  Ik*  there  ! 
And  wi>h  the  swallow's  wing  to  try 
Tne  magic  llood,  and  bathe  in  sky. 

Hut  gnuulcr  tar  the  salile  el(»ud, 
ri.i:i;^iii    with  heavcnV   iin',  and  thunder 

hmd ; 
It    tiff}  \:in  of  sIIviT  yh*'*"!!, 
\\\A  ;i!l  tli<-  rrai*  <ff  niiiliti^lii  m'*  ne  ; 
Ti.i*  .-"lilt  uni  jMal.'  licit  -lowly  imII, 
Kroin  norlii  to  .-outh  athwart  the  |»ole ; 


The  bursting  1>olt.  in  \eiigi*aji(*e  hurfd. 
That  jars  this  wide  and  •^olid  world ; 
The  pen^ile  flash,  whos<*  vivid  form 
Crosses  the  blackness  of  the  storm. 
Descending  now,  with  anger  red. 
Scathes  the  dark  mountain's  dHtanC  ht^ 
Or  plays  it*  gambols  round  the  skj, 
A  solemn  sivne  to  mortal  eye! 
The  plains  U^neath  with  awe  are  stilL 
The  wild  bird  scnMims  not  from  tlie  hill, 
Grave  is  the  lambkin  in  his  cote. 
And  hushed  the  warbler^s  clieeifiil  nole. 

At  length  the  advancing  torrents  maik 
Yon  utmost  summits,  vailed  and  dark,-^ 
Hill  after  hill,  sok  now  it  nearn, 
Is  shadt*d^-dimm*d — and  disappears ; 
And  mingle  now  along  the  plain, 
The  flash — the  peal — and  dashing  rain. 

The  cloud  has  passed.     Descending  day 
Heanis  forth  its  brightest,  loveliest  raj  ^— 
The  youthful  flocks  foi^t  to  feed. 
Through  joy's  excess*  and  rare  ihe  OMai; 
The  songsters  strain  their  little  throaii^ 
To  lend  their  loudest,  merriest  notes ; 
And  s<'3in.*e  tliat  day  does  PhoBbos  part 
From  saddened  eye,  or  sorrowing  heart. 

O !  what  were  life's  dull,  transient 
Without  its  sunshine  and  its  shower! 
Its  (Liy  uf  gloom,  and  doubt's  dark 
And  lu)]>e's  succeeding,  bright'ning 


Yet  gaze  oncf*  more ! — The  son  has  wt. 
High  t)iou>;h  his  rays  arc  lingering  yei^ 
How  bri;{ht.  iN'vond  those  summits  oM, 
Spread-^  the  bn»ad  tielil  of  living  gold! 
How  black.  n|Hm  that  glowing  xeal, 
Lie  the  long  hills,  that  skirt  the  west ! 

Ambit  ion.  n)ark  ! — for  glory's  light 
Kven  tlins  ddav'*  obli\ ion's  night  ;^ 
A  t^%ili;:l>i  «pl*  hiKir,  soft  ami  fair, 
Wiit-n  (It-atli  ha''  \ailrd  its  fiercer  glair; 
r»ij(  .-linrt  thi*  hour,  an<l  sure  the  kMt 
It  failf >,  it  sinks  and  is  forguL 


MOSES  BROOKS. 


iES  Bbooks,  for  many  jears  an  active  lawyer  in  Cincinnati,  was  bom  near 
^  New  York,  on  the  thirty-first  day  of  October,  1789.  His  early  opportunities 
nation  were  limited.  In  1811,  he  became  a  citizen  of  CincinnatL  He  there 
law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  Bar.  In  1830,  declining  health  admonished  him 
idon  his  practice,  and  he  has  since  been  a  merchant.  He  was  a  contributor  to 
stem  Souveniry  and  has  written  poems  and  essays  for  the  LeuUes*  JRepository. 
1,  Mr.  Brooks  was  married  to  the  daughter  of  Samuel  Ransom,  of  ArgeHed, 

:oik. 


I  APOSTROPHE  TO  A  MOUND. 

stood  a  mound,  erected  by  a  race 
nown  in  history  or  poet's  song, 
from  the  earth,  nor  even  lefl  a  trace 
sre  the  broad  ruin  rolled  its  tide  along. 
hidden  chronicle  these  piles  among, 
roglyphic  monument  survives 
ell  their  being's  date  or  whence  they 
mmg — 
ler  from  Grothic  Europe's  ''  northern 


» 


ives, 

t  devoted  land  where  the  dread  siroc 

rives. 

rious  pile !  O  say  for  what  designed  ? 
'e  flaming  altars  on  thy  summit 
lone? 

rictims  bled,  by  pious  rites  consigned, 
i|^ease  the  wrath  of  heaven,  and 
iQs  atone 

sinful  man  to  the  eternal  throne  ? 
ntous  monitor  of  mortal  woe  I 
•u  dost  proclaim  a  nation  lost,  un- 
nown, 

^n  from  earth  by  some  tremendous 
low, 

I  but  a  God  could  give,  and  but  the 
Omniscient  know. 


Hill  of  the  Lord !  where  once  perchance 
of  yore. 
Sincere  devotion  woke  her  pious  strain ; 
Mountain  of  God !  did  prostrate  man  adore. 
And  sing  hosannas  to  Jehovah's  name, 
While  sacrifices  fed  thine  altar's  fiame  ? 
But  when  stem  War  his  sanguine  banner 
spread. 
And  strewed  the  earth  with  many  a 
warrior  slain, 
Didst  thou  become  the  chamel  of  the 

dead. 
Who  sought  imperial  sway,  or  for  &ir 
Freedom  bled  ? 

Yes;  here  may  some   intrepid  chiefbun 
lie. 
Some  Alexander,  great  as  Philip's  son. 
Whose  daring  prowess  bade  the  Persian  fly 
Before  the  conquering  arm  of  Macedon ; 
Or,  greater  still,  some  former  Washing- 
ton, 
Whom  glory  warmed  and  liberty  inspired! 
Who  for  this  hemisphere  perchance  had 
won 
His  country's  freedom,  and,  deplored,  ex- 
pired, 
Bathed  by  a  nation's  tears,  beloved,  re- 
vered, admired. 


(  115  > 


HARVEY  D.  LITTLE. 


TiiKRE  arc  Ijres  toned  with  the  depth  of  the  ocf'nn-voice,  and  the  energj  of  the 
tempest.  Their  simplest  notes  touch  the  feelings  with  an  irresistible  |)owerv  and  their 
full  breathings  come  over  the  bosom,  now  with  an  enchantment  which  causei  a  oniver- 
sal  thrill,  and  now  with  a  rush  and  wildncss  tluit  lash  the  passions  into  rage.  The 
voice  of  ouch  an  instrument  is  preteniaturaL  It  penetrates  into  the  inmost  recewu 
of  the  heart — it  swells  up  into  the  ample  chaml)ers  of  the  soul — and,  gathering  vol- 
ume as  it  goes,  strikes  upon  the  chords  of  tW*ling  with  a  |)Ower  that  startles,  entranoei^ 
and  awes.  Under  its  dominion  are  all  thoughu*,  all  passions,  all  capacities :  and,  ikw 
supreme,  it  i^xalts  man  to  the  skies,  or  pinions  him  to  the  earth,  or  **  laps  him  ia 
Elysium,"  at  will.  >Suc)i  was  the  tone,  and  such  the  compass,  of  his  lyre  who  «aiig 
of  "^PamdiM*,"  and  of  his  no  less  who  tnveed  the  ^Pilgrimage*  of  tbe  wajwaid 
-Childe"      ^ 

Tliere  are  lyres  toned  to  the  gentleness  of  the  zephjT,  and  the  holinen  of  trath. 
Their  empire  is  the  human  heart — their  ministry  is  over  the  aifectioDS.    Their  pm 
and  (*idm  breatliin(;s  fall  u|)on  the  ch:if(*<i  s]>int  with  a  healing  and  restoring  power; 
the  hot  i>alm  and  iMiiling  veins  of  Passion  (*ool  at  their  approach ;   and  the  holiett 
sym]>uthies  of  our  iiatun*.  art^  by  them  calltHl  into  bt*ing,  and  rendered  actiTe 
availing.     The  voice  of  such  an  instrument,  is  the  voice  of  Nature.     It  is  hteatd  i 
the  Verse  of  the  Great  Psalmist — it  sj teaks  at  the  ImiI  of  suffering  and  fear— it 
from  the  tremulous  lips  of  the  fond  mother,  as  she  yields  her  offspring  Co  the 
less  grave — it  arises  from  wliat  s|>ot  s<M*ver  n-genenite  humanity  hath  made  its 
and  nltove  all,  it  comes  down  fn)m  the  Mount  of  Olives,  in  its  fullness,  and 
and  **  ex(*«*e<ling  beauty,"  and  cin*les  the  univers<\     To  this  voice,  were  ioned  the 
lyifs  of  IlelMT,  and  Ilemans,  {uid  Montgomer}' ;  to  it.  likewiM\  was  toned  that  of  hna    i 
wlu»  is  the  subject  of  this  pa|M'r.  ' 

AImuu  the  year  IH.'IO,  a  numl»er  of  fK>«*tic  efru>ion«.  signe<l  Vf.lasques,  met  mj 
eyt*  in  an  obseun^  p:ip4'r  publishiHl  in  the  interior  of  ( ))iio.*  They  struck  ae  M 
)M assessing  considerablt*  merit,  though  they  attnicte<l  no  attention  whatever  Iran  the 
tliiHisand-and-one  pajMTs  which  n'rcttlafe  nt'wspaiKT  M'ribblers  into  notorirty.  I  then^  ' 
ti>r«*  collecttHl  M'veral  of  them  tog<*th«*r.  and  tr.insmitted  tliem  to  a  literary  periodicil 
:it  the  Kast,  of  wiih^  circulation  and  no  little  merit ;  ami  I  had  the  plea«nre  of  leeiBir 
•  m*  or  two  of  them  (*opif*d  and  (*ommend«*<l  in  that  work,  anil  thru  **go  the  roondft'ef 
'ih«'  Westrni  press.  lU*  thi<»  tim*'  I  had  asi^f-rtained  tlifir  author,  and  commenced  ■ 
n>rn'«|K>ndence  with  him.  IIi'  was  tlie  «*ditur  of  the  pa|N*r  in  which  the  ftigitife  . 
itjiMfw  had  originally  apiM»:in'4l,  and  his  name,  si  net*  widfly  known  and  respected, 
IIakvkt  I).  LiTTLi:. 

•At  St  CUImvU:*. 
(    lift  ) 


1830-40.]  HARVEY    D.    LITTLE.  117 

Mr.  Little  was  bom  in  Weathersfield,  Connecticut,  in  the  year  1803,  of  honest  and 
respectable,  but  poor  parents.  In  1815  or  '16,  tlie  family  emigrated  to  the  West,  and 
pitched  their  tents  in  Fi-anklin  county,  Ohio,  then  mostly  a  wilderness.  The  young 
poet  was  compelled  to  earn  his  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  but  yet  found  time,  or 
rather  madt  it,  to  advance  his  very  limited  education,  and  improve  his  mind  by  various 
reading.  At  a  proper  age,  he  was  called  upon  to  make  choice  of  a  trade.  The  prints 
ing  business  had  before  struck  his  fancy,  by  reason  of  its  intellectual  character,  and 
the  facilities  it  afforded  a  young  and  active  mind  to  acquire  general  knowledge,  and 
he  readily  pitched  upon  it  He  was  apprenticed  to  a  printer  in  Columbus ;  and  by 
the  time  he  had  reached  his  twenty-first  year,  had  managed,  besides  faithfully  and 
diligently  servmg  his  master,  and  becoming  a  proficient  in  his  business,  to  give  him- 
self an  exceUent  English  education,  and  to  acquire  a  very  geneitd  acquaintance  with 
English  literature.  Beside  the  beautiful  rivers  of  the  West,  and  in  the  depths  of  her 
mighty  forests,  he  had  studied  likewise  the  Book  of  Nature,  and  enrolled  himself  on 
the  list  of  her  awed  and  inspired  worshipers.  Her  lessons  sank  deeply  into  his 
hearty  and  her  beauty,  and  vastness,  and  sublimity,  fired  his  imagination.  Though 
learning  was  not  his,  nor  wealth,  nor  power,  nor  the  encouraging  approval  of  influen- 
tial friends,  mind  was  his  dower ;  and  the  inspired  ones  of  the  Old  World,  here  in  the 
solitade  and  silence  of  the  mighty  wildernesses  of  the  New,  were  his  companions  and 
guides.  Thus  prompted,  his  young  muse  gave  birth  to  a  number  of  effusions,  while 
he  was  yet  in  his  minority,  that  bespeak  the  poet,  the  philanthropist,  and  the  Christian. 
They  are  generally  of  a  reflective  cast,  and  though  marked  by  the  blemishes  common 
to  the  productions  of  budding  inteUect,  are  in  every  sense  creditable  to  juvenile  per- 
formances. The  tinge  of  melancholy,  which  was  one  of  the  charms  of  Mr.  Little's 
later  writings,  is  observable  in  these  early  manifestations  of  his  poetical  capacity.  This 
was  no  doubt  constitutional  in  part,  and  in  part  the  result  of  his  habits  of  life  in  youth. 
It  has  nowhere  the  appearance  of  affectation ;  and  to  one  who  knew  him,  as  I  did, 
though  but  a  few  years  before  his  death— devoid  of  art,  simple  almost  to  childliness, 
zealous  as  a  Christian,  warm  as  a  friend,  faithful  and  devoted  as  a  husband  and  a 
£EUher,  ambitious  more  to  win  a  name  for  goodness  than  for  greatness,  humble  and 
gentle  and  benevolent — it  will  touch  the  heart  with  painful  interest 

Mr.  Little  w^as  connected  with  several  newspaper  establishments,  as  editor  and 
co-pubUsher,  within  a  few  years  afler  having  attained  to  his  majority.  He  found  the 
business  unprofitable,  however,  in  every  instance,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  or  six, 
having  in  the  mean  time  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  espoused  an  amiable  lady,  a 
daughter  of  Doctor  Horton  Howard  of  Columbus,  he  abandoned  it  entirely,  with  the 
intention  of  devoting  himself  to  the  practice  of  his  new  profession.  His  first  efforts 
at  the  bar  inspired  confidence  in  his  talents  and  energy,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  success  appeared  on  the  eve  of  crowning  his  efforts.  But,  alas !  how  unstable 
are  the  determinations  of  man.  Domestic  considerations  induced  Mr.  Little  to  aban- 
don the  law  for  a  time,  and  again  take  upon  himself  the  editorial  charge  of  a  period- 
ical publication.  In  this  he  was  engaged  when,  in  August  of  the  year  1883,  his 
career  was  suddenly  arrested  by  the  hand  of  death.     He  fell  a  victim  to  the  Asiatic 


UK  HAKVKY    D.    LITTLE.  [l«9i-4lL 


ficourge,  which  at  tlmt  time  nwi^pt  over  this  fair  land,  deMlatiD)^  nuuij  m  bftppy 
and  quench ing  the  firm}  of  many  an  aspiring  spirit  lie  died  in  the  thirtj-finC 
of  his  ogts  leaving  behind  him  his  wife  and  one  child,  having  liuried  two  of  tlie  three 
cherubs  with  whieh  he  Imd  l>een  ble:>sed,  but  a  few  days  previous  to  his  own  demise.* 
Hut  a  (*ouple  of  weeks  belbre,  I  hud  felt  the  warm  prcsHure  of  hifl  friendlj  handy  and 
left  him, 

**  Frcph-llpp'd.  and  iron-n«TTcd,  and  high  of  hoart," 

indulging  in  the  brightest  anticipations  of  future  usefulness  and  bappinest.  He  wm 
maturing  several  literary  schemes ;  and  when  wc  parted,  spoke  with  enthusiann  of  the 
time,  whieh  he  bc*gan  to  think  at  hand,  when  he  hhould  Imve  h*isure  to  do  aomethiBg 
for  the  literature  of  his  countr}',  and  the  honor  of  his  name.     But  alas !  to 

the  beremvlng  tomb, 

Whi'n*  end  Ambitiuos  da>'-drf«iiui  all," 

he  was  hurried,  within  a  fortnight  of  that  time,  with  only  the  warning  of  a  few  hovrn. 
Death  found  him  prt^mred  for  the  harvest ;   and  a  good  and  noble  soul  was 
into  the  Great  Gamer,  when  he  feU. 

Mr.  Little  was  a  type  of  a  chiss  of  young  men  who,  though  not  altogellier 
to  the  West,  have  yet  mnrke<i  this  section  of  the  Union  more  distinctly  than  any 
Harvard,  Yale,  West  Point, and  similar  institutions  in  the  Eastern  States  liave 
been  the  Abna  Mater  of  men  who  have  tlierein  risen  to  distuiction  at  the  bar,  ia  the 
army,  in  tlic  pulpit,  and  in  the  htUis  of  legishition.     In  the  Western  Stalea, 
those  phu*es  liave  been,  and  now  are,  to  an  extent  which  makes  it  worthy  of 
filhtl  by  men  who,  like  Mr.  Little,  graduated  in  a  printing-office  instead  of  a 
and  miule  their  first  mark  with  printer's  ink  insteail  of  blood,  blucvtiuid,  or  the 
urtHl  tones  of  a  voice  trained  to  command,  to  supplicate,  to  plead  in  court,  < 
in  senatorial  halLi. 

Acconling  to  established  literary  canons,  Mr.  Little's  poetind  gvnius  was  not  of  At 
higher  onler.  The  tones  of  his  Imrp  were  like  tht*  bn^ulhing  of  the  ^sweet 
we^t,**  and  came  upon  the  heart  miltlly  and  soothingly.  The  melody  of  hia 
perttN't ;  its  imagery  rich — its  language  choline — its  figures  striking  and  a] 
But  to  it  belonged  the  sofhiess  and  ^hadow  o^'  twilight,  rather  than  the  depth  and 
striMigth  of  the  fuIl-rolxHl  night ;  the  stillness  and  di'wy  beauty  of  eariy  dawn,  nlh« 
tlian  the  brightness  and  power  of  meridian  day.  His  |MN'trv  was  never  UD|MMaiand 
or  stormy — never  ambitious  or  dazzling ;  but  always  gentle,  anil  pensive,  and  hrraifc 
ing  of  love,  and  duty,  and  n'ligion — the  full  out|)ouriiig  of  a  Chri>tian  spiriL  Had  he 
bciMi  sfMired,  to  try  his  wing  at  a  (Continuous  flight,  I  not  only  Wlivve  that  h 
have  sustained  him,  but  that  he  would  have  prudurtnl  something,  which  wooU 
have  b<'en  an  honor  to  his  name  alone,  but  to  his  country. 

•Mr.    I.lltlr  dinl  no  tlu'  rrmlhiC  of  Au^iut   Cwrut)-fv<^>iiJ,  1S33      Tbr  prrk-lkal  b«  edited.  M  Ck*  ite»i 
•Irath.  «M  r«ll4Nl  Thf  KfUflir  an't  M-  /I'a/  /^ifrmtir      Hr  vm*  •  iminbrr  of  tbe  L'ulumlim*  T.i|i'^iiBpl 
On  til*  thIiirvnUi  of  Nowmber,  ISU,  Uuft  Siritljr  hvid  •  BMvUng  In  mrmnn  of  Mr.  LilUr.  ttl  vhkh 
Jvukitt*  driifcrvd  ao  sddrvM. 


1830-40.] 


HARVEY   D.    LITTLE. 


119 


PALMYRA. 

How  art  thoQ  fallen,  mighty  one  I 
Queen  of  the  desert's  arid  brow  I 

The  evening's  shade,  the  morning's  sun, 
Rest  only  on  thy  ruins  now. 

Thine  hour  is  o'er,  thy  glory's  done, 
A  dreary  waste  thy  charms  endow ! 

In  thy  proud  days  thou  seem'dst  a  star. 
Amidst  a  desert's  sullen  gloom, 

Shedding  thy  radiance  afar 
O'er  nature's  solitary  tomb. 

But  time,  whose  gentlest  touch  can  mar, 
Hath  sear'd  thy  tall  palmetto's  bloom. 

The  shouts  of  joy — ^the  voice  of  mirth, 
That  waked  to  life  thy  marble  domes: 

Thy  crowded  marts — thy  peopled  earth — 
Thy  gculptur'd  halls,  and  sacred  homes, 

Are  silent  now.     Thy  faded  worth 
A  barren  wilderness  entombs. 

The  savage  beast  hath  made  his  lair, 
Where  pomp  and  power  once  held 
their  sway ; 

And  silence,  with  a  fearful  air. 
Sits  darkly  brooding  o'er  decay : 

And  maii>le  fanes,  divinely  fair, 

Have  bowed  beneath  thine  evil  day. 

Round  polish'd  shafts  the  ivy  twines 
A  wreath  funereal  for  thy  fate : 

And  through  thy  temples'  broken  shrines 
The  moaning  wind  sweeps  desolate. 

But  tlie  mild  star  of  evening  shmes 
Benignly  o'er  thy  fallen  state. 

Oh,  how  thy  silence  chills  the  heart 
Of  the  lone  traveler,  whose  tread 

Is  o'er  the  firagments  of  thine  art, 
Thou  wondrous  City  of  the  Dead ! 

Thy  glory  cannot  yet  depart, 
Though  all  of  life  hath  from  thee  fled. 


AWAY,  AWAY,  I  SCORN  THEM  ALL. 

Away,  away,  I  scorn  them  all. 

The  mirthful  board,  tlie  joyous  glee ; 

The  laughter  of  the  festive  hall ; 
The  long  wild  shouts  of  revelry ; 

To  their  vain  worshipers  they  bring 

Seasons  of  bitter  sorrowing. 

But,  oh,  by  far  the  wiser  part, 

To  visit  that  secluded  spot. 
Where  death  hath  quench'd  some  faith- 
ful heart, 

And  closed,  for  aye,  its  varied  lot : 
For  there,  beside  the  funeral  urn, 
Lessons  of  wisdom  we  may  learn. 


The  brief  but  busy  scenes  of  life 
Its  fickle  pleasures,  and  its  woes — 

Its  mingled  happiness  and  strife- 
Its  fearful  and  its  final  close, 

Pass  through  the  mind  in  swift  review, 

With  all  their  colorings  strictly  true. 

We  see  the  littleness  of  man — 

The  end  of  all  his  pride  and  power : — 

Scarce  has  his  pilgrimage  began 

£'er  death's  dark  clouds  upon  him 
lower ; 

And  rank,  and  pomp,  and  greatness,  fiee 

Like  meteor  gleams ! — and  where  is  he  ? 

Yes,  where  is  he,  whose  mighty  mind 
Could  soar  beyond  the  bounds  of  space, 

And  in  some  heavenly  planet  find 
The  spirit's  final  resting  place  ? 

Grone  I  gone,  in  darkness,  down  to  dust  I 

''Ashes  to  ashes,"  mingle  must. 

Well  may  we  learn  from  life's  last  scene. 
The  fearful  lessons  of  man's  fate : 

How  frail  the  barriers  between 
The  living  and  the  dead's  estate. 

The  elastic  air — ^the  vital  breath — 

Is  but  the  link  'twixt  life  and  death. 


ttABVEY    n.    LITTLE. 


IHK  W  Oil'KKKR:*  RKTl"EN. 
L  .  ^«ih  ouiv  uKirr,  «  wt-uritMl  man, 

I't)  luuk  u|iuu  Llmt  holj'  *\n>t, 
Wtii-rv  lii'Hi  uiv  uilkiit  lile  bf^^nn 

r«^  jiiui'iii'v  thnwKli  ils  tliungi'ful  lot. 
I  iHiiii- 1 — A  ttiuUKUiid  shadow*  |j|uy 

t'lHui  ilu'  luinvr  uf  mj'  tniml — 
I'Ik-  ]>tiAhli>»i.t  i>f  «  liujipivr  day 
lu  Mi'iiiory's  MM'ivd  ku<.-iiiTig  ihrincd. 

I  «*/!*  I  wul  1«  !  before  mi-  rise 

till-  stiiuli-duf  many  a  Imllnwcd  form: 
'riii'v  iMiw  Utbre  my  wiMcr'd  cycn, 

Willi  kmlui  ta  bluuming,  young,  and 
wnnn, 
A'"  lwii>'  ti'ti  ytfiM  npo  (lipy  (wmM. 

WtirH  liist  in  fi|iiirtivf  hour  wi-  met; 
lUil  «U!  »■«'  tlirn  Iiad  ncvt-r  dn-am'd 

'rbrtl  yt'iiili'd  bright  fUn  mi  «hhi  would 
m-t. 

\Vhi-n>  nrr  tliey  now  ? — I  find  lliom  nut 
\\  hi'tv  iTHt  tlieir  gluriou:*  fonnn  i 

i;.uiid  I 

Vliii'li  liivuHlr  tiaunl,  each  well  known  Hput, 
l'li-h(H'--i  iiu  iiiuK  tliu  clii-vrtul  Muud 

HI'  ilii'ir  filuil  vokf*.     Tiny  urc  Bonc, 
(I'lr  liilU,  mid  HtrMiiUji,  and  volk-yK^ 

Hi'iiilirM  lik>'  li'iircs  by  iiutiimn  ulntwii, 
l-i*t'ii  ill  llifir  tK'Alivnt  blouiii  and  pridi 

'I1ii<  ]ilui-iil  bnmk  Ktilt  winil"  ita  way 
'rii»niKli  pl<>|>ini;  Inuika  budcvk'd  willi, 
|I..«.th: 

■ri.c  /t-)ili,vi-«  ihr.iii;rli  ill*'  Ii-allft*  [ibiy,  j 
Tin-  -.iiiiif  iw  ill  lilt's  I'lirly  liiiur*.        j 

Hut  li mid  iIhuij!.-  luv.'  ^tnulp■ly  rasl; 

M t  ili.>U(!ht>.  (irr  lr.-a-ur'd  wiih  lli.'  pn-it— I 
M>  lmc|<if't  tii.iiu.iii.*  .iMi.-r  tli.r.-.     j 

1  111  I  iliiii  I'Vh  lur  cliildliiKHrs  liomn  | 
lliilli  lii-l  ill  iHiif  mystfrioiis  f liann  I  , 

Nil  «■•;.'•■  |<.in-iil;il  liid:!  m<-  f<mi<- —  [ 

Niiiii-  (jn-rU  iiK-  with  iifttviiim  warm!; 


But  ynU  amid  niy  bvini^B  bli|[hl,  | 

Uiu!  nourirh'il  thought  with  fbndiMM   i 

Tluit  wh'rre  inlue  vyea  Ant  hailed  ibt 
li^lit, 
Thetv  tbi-y,  at  but,  abiU  dukly  cki>«. 


ON  JUDAIIS  UILI^. 

Os  Judali's  tiill  the  lowering  palm 

Still  iipreaJx  it«  bmiehe«  to  the  Aj, 
The  Nuni!  through  yean  of  KUn  and 

As  entt  it  wan  in  days  gme  bj. 
When  Isruel's  kin;;  poured  forth  hk  pMla 
Li  Btniini  of  sacred  melody. 

And  I..<'t>anon,  thy  fonwU  green  . 

An>  wuviiif;  in  the  lonely  wind,  I 

To  mark  the  s^ilitary  Aoene,  i 

lllieri'  wnndi'ring  laneri  hopes  an  ' 

But  tht!  fumiil  Tiwple'*  ancient  nbeea      | 
The  ])ilgrim  twc-ks,  in  vain,  to  find.        | 

And  Kiilrun'.t  brook,  and  Jonlan't  tide,  ] 

IIiill  (inwnrd  tii  the  nlofE^^h  sen:  ! 

But  wliiTi'  in  Siilvni'ii  swollen  pride,  ' 

Ilt-r  cliarifit^  and  her  clu\-ali7,  I 

Her  Tyriafl  ivIh-,  in  purple  dyed,  I 

Il<TH-iirIikflio^i8,wlio«cornediotlce?  ' 

Gone :  ull  art-  gr>ne !  In  sullen  BMiod 
Tbr  cnifl  Anib  kiuwIlts  lln-re. 

In  i»'uri-li  lit'  biimiiH  i>|iiiilii  and  blood;       | 
TIk-  vi<-tiiii.f  of  his  wily  snare:  ; 

Anil  wlii-rt-  tlif  hidy  pru|ihct«  Mood  I 

Till-  will!  iK-iL'itii  nuke  ibeir  cecnt  bir. 

Itnl,  oh  :   .Tiiib-n.  tlien-  nhall  come  ! 

Fur  lliH<-  aiiDiluT  plorioiu  ntoni ;  I 
Wli'-u  tliy  n-tnais  sluill  be  a  home 

Fur  itiiiuiamN  pininfi  now  foriorn, 

In  (Ii>iiiiit  Liiul- : — no  more  to  nam  | 

'I*1h^  uliji.vts  of  disdain  and  kohl  | 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


George  Denison  Prentice  was  born  on  the  eighteenth  of  December,  1802,  in 
the  town  of  Preston,  in  the  State  of  Connecticut.  Such  was  his  early  ripeness  of  intel- 
lect that  he  was  appointed  the  principal  of  a  public  school  before  he  was  fifteen  years 
of  age.  He  went  to  College,  and  graduated  at  Brown  University,  Providence,  Rhode 
Island,  in  the  year  1823.  He  then  studied  the  profession  of  the  law,  and  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  in  1827.  In  1828,  he  established  the  New  England  Weekly  Review ^  at 
Hartford,  Connecticut  Leaving  John  6.  Whittier  to  conduct  the  Review^  in  the 
summer  of  1880,  Mr.  Prentice  removed  to  Kentucky,  and  wrote  the  life  of  Henry 
Clay.*  In  November  of  the  same  year,  he  established  The  LauisviUe  Journal,  and 
has  been  its  chief  editor  ever  since.  The  fame  of  the  Journal  is  not  only  superemi- 
nent  in  the  West,  but  it  is  known  throughout  the  Union  as  an  influential  and  popular 
gazette.  In  the  broad  universality  of  its  scope,  it  comprehends  every  thing  that  a 
joomal,  political,  literary  and  commercial,  may  be  expected  to  possess. 

Whatever  may  be  the  sacrilege  of  giving  utterance  to  such  an  opinion,  I  cannot 
forego  saying,  that  in  my  estimation,  George  D.  Prentice  is  one  of  the  most  perfect 
masters  of  blank  verse  in  America,  and  that  his  writings  in  that  style  contain  as  much 
of  the  genuine  element  of  genius  in  poetry  as  those  of  any  of  our  countrymen.  To 
such  as  question  this  decision,  I  can  but  refer  to  his  two  poems— one  upon  the  ^  Flight 
of  Years,"  and  his  lines  upon  the  "  Mammoth  Cave."  His  "  Dead  Mariner,"  and 
other  rhymed  pieces,  evince  how  exquisite  a  master  he  is  of  versification.  He  has  a 
fine  musical  ear,  and  the  harmony  of  his  numbers  fiows  with  the  most  mellifiuous 
measure,  while  his  verse  is  graced  with  diction  as  chaste  as  it  is  elegant  Every  thing 
he  preserves  in  the  amber  of  his  poesy  is  selected  with  unerring  taste.  What  he  has 
written  as  a  poet  only  makes  us  wish  for  more. 

Sang  Greorge  is  said  to  have  asked  Dr.  Johnson  why  he  had  ceased  to  write.  "  1 
think  I  have  written  enough,"  replied  the  Doctor.  "  It  would  have  been  enough,"  re- 
tamed  the  King,  **were  it  not  so  well  written."  The  precious  fame  the  poet  pur- 
chases, is  generally  at  the  cost  of  business  success  in  every  other  affair  of  life,  and 
not  infrequently  at  the  expense  of  losing  credit  for  all  practicability  of  mind — reason 
being  generally  supposed  to  exist  in  inverse  ratio  to  fancy  and  imagination — ^prose 
and  prosiness  being  frequently  mistaken  as  indices  of  profoundness  and  philosophy, 
while  poetry  has  a  popular  co-relative  connection  with  superficiality  and  impractica- 
bility. But  none  who  see  the  spirit  of  this  true  genius,  winging  his  way  along  the 
level  face  of  the  earth,  as  Goethe  says, 

"in  the  glow  and  smoke, 

Where  the  blind  million  rash  impetuously 
To  meet  the  Evil  One  "  — 

*  BIqpnphy  of  Henrj  CUy.    By  Gtoiige  D.  Prentloe.    Hartftyrd :  Haomer  and  Phelps,  1881.    12mo,  pp  804. 

(  121  ) 


1*^2  G£0R(;E    D.    PKENTICE.  [iKMMfL 

in  till*  cruwdt'd  wiivM  of  dusty  diies,  or  huveriii^  nl>out  the  fug-mantled  pool  of  poliiici^ 
but  f«*cl  that  the  liuiue  s]»irit  lia»  the  |K>wer  to  i»oar  up  to  the  bun,  and 

'* Hulhc  hirt  pluDiaK<'  in  Ihv  tbuiul'TH  bnini* !  " 

In  tlie  case  of  GiH^r^e  I).  Pn?ntie(%  wc  tH*e  the  phenomenon  of  the  PoeU  the  Phi- 
loi«opher  and  the  Politician  8 wallowed  up  by  the  quaint  and  laughable  Gaipuitna  of 
the  Wit.  FaLttaff-like,  he  i;*  not  only  witty  in  himself,  ^  Imt  the  caiue  that  wit  ii  Id 
other  men.**  So  popuhir  m  he  as  a  parugraphist  that  a  volume  of  his  **  wit  and  w» 
dom  '^  haii  been  widely  cireulated.* 

The  many-iiided  mind  that  made  the  masterly  editor  and  |K)Iilieian,  has  given  to  Mr. 
Pn'nti<-e  tlmt  universality  of  ^Miius  that  can  alone  eon>titute  thi*  truly  great  ]Miet — the 
])osst*shion  of  tliat  common  M*n>e  which  correctj^  the  erratic  caprices  of  geniu-s  and  givei 
itM  true  wf right  and  value  to  every  i!(ubj*H't  and  idea.  Such  in  the  kf 
of  tin*  brain  of  George  I).  Prentice.  His  pathos  is  counterlialanced  by  his  hui 
his  sublimity  is  matched  by  his  wit;  the  ki-en  subtlety  oi*  his  sarcasm  finds  ks 
cfMinteqtoifte  in  that  ovtTwelling  fountain  of  sentiment,  in  whose  translucent  depth* 
p-ms  of  iN-auty  danu*  fon*ver.  No  pn)iH>sition  is  too  broad  tor  his  compreheDSioB,  ao 
ab>tniction  t<M)  evasive,  no  flower  of  fancy  too  deli(*ate,  ainl  no  microoosai  too  muMp 
for  hi."!  ins| section.  In  wit,  he  (*:itches  the  j(»ke  in  the  very  seed,  as  it  were,  belbrr  it 
bhissoins  into  a  lau^rh.  He  niark<«  a  jest  ah  aro^  iM'fore  its  head  is  fiiirly  out  of  ihr 
shell,  aiifl  you  n(*ver  fear  for  your  pun  or  ]x>int.  Whether  you  m-ander  olT  iolo  the 
fairy  n*alm  of  RomantM*  with  him,  and  walk  the  Vnlluill:i  galleries  of  ideal  tcnples 
and  ca'^tlcs,  or  pi^nsively  meditate  under  green,  summer  boughs,  by  a  blue  and  idle 
hnxik.  he  is  equally  genial. 

Mr.  Pi-entic<s  by  private  corn'S|)ondence  and  by  timely  notices  in  his  .AMmMiL  hai 
caused  many  a  blossom  of  [Mjetry  to  blow  in  hearts  that  otherm'ise  might  only  have 
worn  A  purple  crown  of  thistles.  Many  will  In*  able  to  say  fif  him  in  after-time, 
on(*  gifb'd  prtttege  in  s<mg  of  his  has  so  sweetly  sung,  the  lamented  ' 


Tbe  Wright  ntsf.  whrti  Tui!  -d. 
Klines  forUi  o'er  its  tomb 

ltd  Velvi't  leaven.  laded 

With  dileiit  iNrfiifni*. 
Thus  nmnd  nn*  will  hover. 

Ill  Kri^'f  ur  in  ^Ii-e. 
Till  lire's  dn'iim  lie  «»riT. 

Sw^-et  ni>  mories  <if  till  I*. 

Mr.  Pn^ntice  married  a  daughter  of  JiHeph  Renham,  of  Cincinnati,  one  of  the 
brightest  onuiments  of  the  Ohio  Imr.  Mr>.  PnMiiiee  inheritud  her  father's  talent,  and 
is  a  brilliant  and  acccmiplished  wtunan. 

Finally,  IhiM,  vindictive  and  s<*athing  {Kditicinn  that  Mr.  Prentice  is  in  pnblie. 
mfMle<«tv,  hiiniilitv  and  kindnes<4  cluster  nUiut  biiii  in  private  life;  and  where  the  lea- 
driU  of  hi-i  trieiaUiiip  attach  tlien:selves,  no  <it<inn  of  |):i4>i()n  or  winter  of  ailverviir 
ever  weaken*  their  li«iM. 

*  I'miiti-rana.  or  U  n  nii'l  llunmr  lu  ranipniphi.     IVrbr  h  Jjrkiuin.  >'«•«  York,  l^!«9.    ISno.  fif. 


1830-40.] 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


123 


THE  DEAD  MARINER. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on !  above  thy  corse 

The  winds  their  Sabbath  keep  ; 
The  waves  are  round  thee,  and  thy  breast 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  deep. 
0*er  thee  mild  eve  her  beaaty  flings, 
And  there  the  white  gull  lifts  her  wings  ; 
And  the  blue  halcyon  loves  to  lave 
Her  plumage  in  the  deep,  blue  wave. 

Sleep  on ;  no  willow  o*er  thee  bends 

With  melancholy  air, 
No  violet  springs,  nor  dewy  rose 

Its  soul  of  love  lays  bare ; 
But  there  the  sea-flower,  bright  and  young, 
Is  sweetly  o'er  thy  slumbers  flung ; 
And,  like  a  weeping  mourner  fair. 
The  pale  flag  hangs  its  tresses  there. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on ;  the  glittering  depths 

Of  ocean's  coral  caves 
Are  thy  bright  urn — thy  requiem 

The  music  of  its  waves ; 
The  parple  gems  forever  bum 
In  Aideless  beauty  round  thy  urn ; 
And  pure  and  deep  as  infant  love, 
The  blue  sea  rolls  its  waves  above. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on ;  the  fearful  wrath 

Of  mingling  cloud  and  deep 
May  leave  its  wild  and  stormy  track 

Above  thy  place  of  sleep  ; 
But,  when  the  wave  has  sunk  to  rest, 
As  now,  *t  will  murmur  o'er  thy  breast ; 
And  the  bright  victims  of  the  sea 
Perchance  will  make  their  home  with  thee. 

Sleep  on ;  thy  corse  is  far  away, 

But  love  bewails  thee  yet ; 
For  thee  the  heart-wrung  sigh  is  breathed. 

And  lovely  eyes  are  wet ; 
And  she,  thy  young  and  beauteous  bride. 
Her  thoughts  are  hovering  by  thy  side, 
As  ofl  she  turns  to  view,  with  tears, 
The  Eden  of  departed  years. 


A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE. 

Night  steals  upon  the  world  ;  the  shades 

With  silent  flight,  are  sweeping  down 
To  steep,  as  day's  last  glory  fades, 

In  tints  of  blue  the  landscape  brown ; 
The  wave  breaks  not ;  deep  slumber  holds 
The  dewy  leaves ;  the  night-wind  folds 
Her  melancholy  wing ;  and  sleep 
Is  forth  upon  the  pulseless  deep. 

The  willows,  mid  the  silent  rocks. 

Are  brooding  o'er  the  waters  mild, 
Like  a  fond  mother's  pendent  locks 

Hung  sweetly  o'er  her  sleeping  child ; 
The  flowers  that  fringe  the  purple  stream. 
Are  sinkng  to  their  evening  dream ; 
And  earth  appears  a  lovely  spot^ 
Where  sorrow's  voice  awakens  not 

But  see!  such  pure,  such  beautiful, 

And  burning  scenes  awake  to  birth 
In  yon  bright  depths,  they  render  dull 

The  loveliest  tents  that  mantle  earth  I 
Tlie  heavens  are  rolling  blue  and  fair. 
And  the  soil  night-gems  clustering  there 
Seem,  as  on  high  they  breathe  and  bum, 
Bright  blossoms  o'er  day's  shadowy  urn. 

At  this  still  hour,  when  starry  songs 
Are   floating   through   night's   glowing 
noon. 
How  sweet  to  view  those  radiant  throngs 

Glitter  around  the  throne  of  June ! 
To  see  them  in  their  watch  of  love. 
Gaze  from  the  holy  heavens  above, 
And  in  their  robes  of  brightness  roam 
Like  angels  o'er  the  eternal  dome ! 

Their  light  is  on  the  ocean  isles, 

'TIS  trembling  on  the  mountain  stream ; 

And  the  far  hills,  beneath  their  smiles, 
Seem  creatures  of  a  blessed  dream  ! 

Upon  the  deep  their  glory  lies, 

As  if  untreasured  from  the  skies, 


:« 


GEOSr.E   D.   PRENTICE. 


[1100-40. 


V-  'i   viin>  >*.it  '*u?4uiii:  Tnjiu  iui  waves, 

*.  1^1  -ta-^t  III'*  'Kiiii  'Jivir  sparry  eaves! 
•  •••••• 

W  "^^k  ^:tji-  I  '.iui^ !  'lis  wonw  than  vain  ! 
I'^.i^  !i\-n?  I  jpizfJ  ill  years  ;jone  by, 
K:v     Ti'-i   vvid  i»iii(l»  hail  bn^athed  oik* 

v*ii  KuK\v*'i  rioh  and  mellow  sky. 
I  wl»  I  tVvl  ih*.'***  early  ynirs 
l\^«>  :h:4i:iii^  ihn.tu^h  the  fount  of  tear?, 
Vm    KIM  sill;;  brij-hily,  wildly  bark 
\^  V  i  M.  Luot \*^  div^»  and  burning  track ! 

l^»  v«  N,.iv  I  j:5U\xI!     Tlie  night-bird  still 
t\si-t  u>  ««wt  ^Mig;  the  starlight  beams 
V-  ■  .■^s^■  •^^'  !^v»«er  and  (orvsi  hill; 

V  x!  'tiavv  );uxbe«  ti\»ni  the  streams; 
tV.'  \  *»'  ,^^4M>;\xl!  I  frvl  no  more 
t*k,    w  » \xx*  K»x'«  that  elMirined  In^fore  ; 


Smiling  in  tlieir  sweet  sleep,  as  if  their 

dn'ams 
Were  of  the  0|)cniug  flowers  and  badding 

tn^es 
And  overlianging  i^ky — and  its  bright  mua 
Resting  u|K)n  the  mountain-lops^  as  crown* 
U|)on  the  heads  of  giants.  Autumn  too 
IIa<  gone,  with  all  its  deeper  glories— fooe 
With  its  green  hills  like  altars  of  the  world 
Lifting  their  rich  fruit-offerings  to  their 

Owl— 
Its  (*ool  winds  straying  mid  the  forest  aisles 
To  wake  their  tliouAand  wind-haqw-^ts 

si'n*ne 
And  holy  sunsets  hanging  o'er  the  West 
Like   banners   from    the    battlements  of 

Heaven — 
And  its  still  evenings,  when  the  ""^"lyl'* 

sea 
Was  ev«>r  thn>bbing,  like  the  living  heart 


V  •.!  .^,  As*^  xtvAVs  !H»  lur  th'partrtl, 

\\n^,  Nil  *x*  *Mw%vk  the  bn»keii-hearte<l!"  ( M" the  great  Tiii verse.    Ay — th 

Hut  sounds  and  visions  of  the 
dfM'p, 


^ti?.  m\;ur  ov  years. 

\;x»\k    <x**«o  Kuv\t«r!— like  a  rushing  wave 


Wild  lK.*auty  has  d<'i)arted  from  the  Earth. 
An<l  th«'y  are  gathered  to  the  embrace  of 

Death, 
i  Their  solemn  hrrald  to  Etemitj. 


Viu^iU.  I  \x^4»  \\A*  Uw^l  ujHm  the  shore 
\*i   »,».»!»U  Ivm.i;     and  its  hist  low  tones, 
W  t.i.U  1  in*;  \\\  bi\«ki'U  lUHH  iits  on  the  air, 

I'ho  fcjriv  Spring, 


Nor  havf*  tlii'v  gone  alone.     High  human 

h«'arts 
Of  Pa»ion  have  gone  with  them.    The 

fn-^h  ihi^t 
Is   chill   on   many  a  breast,  that  burned 
Wuh    \\%  \\»»»»<  ihaiiMs  has  gi»ne — gone'  «n\vhili» 

>hiiK  ti«  U',i\»'«  With  tin-*  that   seemed  immortaL     Jojk 

h.  *  i»Kv|»No»v  *»i  ix^''^"'     its  white  rlonds   I  that  h-ajM-d 

v»...»'»*iiu,;  lAoi^'i^aph^iii  ihenir — itsbinl-  Like  aiigt'l.-  tnmi  the  heart,  and  wandered 
I '  .mi.;  •'»»  i»  k»\i'«  miu«*ii*— amlitssln^ains  !>«•«• 

„  .Jt^    »i»d  th**"!*!*!;  l'i>»in  the  ni>-piled  In  liti'-y«ninii  mom  to  hM»kui»on  the  flowers 
%  .  The  iNN'irv  of  nature,  and  to  list 

I  ^.   .  ,41 4h  tvh\»  ^iih  ihi*  joy  of  waves.  Tin*  woven  sounds  of  bn*eze,  and  bird^aad 

V,..    v..»*.u*i,  *»ih  im  dews  luid  showers,  sinani, 

^^^      ^.,,,  !'l>r»n  ilii'  ni;rht -air, have  lK*en  stricken  down 

»     ..  :.  s  ••  .   'i*'*o»i4  **<»  the  ili^tant  cltMnl     In  >ilrnn'  to  ihf  ihi-l.     PIxult.int  Hope, 
V.     X--»»-^  ^'^    ^^^'  Nona — its    |K'aeeful  That  ni\etl  fm-ex  er  on  the  buoyant  winds 

Likt*  thf  bridit,  >tarrv  bird  of  Paradise, 


J 


1830-40.] 


GEORGE   D.    PRENTICE. 


126 


And  chanted  to  the  eTer-listening  heart 
In  the  wild  music  of  a  thousand  tongues, 
Or  soared  into  the  open  skj,  until 
Night's  burning  gems  seemed  jeweled  on 

her  brow, 
Has  shut  her  drooping  wing,  and  made  her 

home 
Within  the  voiceless  sepulcher.   And  Love, 
That  knelt  at  Passion's  holiest  shrine,  and 

gazed 
On  his  heart's  idol  as  on  some  sweet  star. 
Whose  purity  and  distance  make  it  dear. 
And  dreamed  of  ecstacies,  until  his  soul 
Seemed  but  a  Ijre,  that  wakened  in  the 

glance 
Of  the  beloved  one — he  too  has  gone 
To  his  eternal  resting-place.    And  where 
Is  stem  Ambition — ^he  who  madly  grasped 
At  Glory's  fleeting    phantom  —  he   who 

sought 
His  fame  upon  the  battle-field,  and  longed 
To  make  his  throne  a  pyramid  of  bones 
Amid  the  sea  of  blood  ?     He  too  has  gone ! 
His   stormy  voice  is  mute  —  his  mighty 

arm 
Is  nerveless  on  its  clod — ^his  very  name 
Is  but  a  meteor  of  the  night  of  years 
Whose  gleams  flashed  out  a  moment  o'er 

the  Earth, 
And  faded  into  nothingness.     The  dream 
Of  high  devotion — ^beauty's  bright  array — 
And  life's  deep  idol  memories — all  have 

passed 
Like  the   cloud-shadows  on    a    starlight 

stream. 
Or  a  sofl  strain  of  music,  when  the  winds 
Are  slumbering  on  the  billow. 

Yet,  why  muse 
Upon  the  past  with  sorrow  ?     Though  the 

year 
Has  gone  to  blend  with  the  mysterious  tide 
Of  old  Eternity,  and  borne  along 
Upon  its  heaving  breast  a  thousand  wrecks 
Of  glory  and  of  beauty — yet,  why  mourn 
That  such  is  destiny  ?     Another  year 


Succeedeth  to  the  past — ^in  their  bright 

round 
The  seasons  come  and  go-— the  same  blue 

arch, 
That  hath  hung  o'er  us,  will  hang  o'er  us 

yet — 
The  same  pure  stars  that  we  have  lov'd  to 

watch. 
Will  blossom  still  at  twilight's  gentle  hour 
Like  lilies  on  the  tomb  of  Day — and  still 
Man  will  remain,  to  dream  as   he  hath 

dreamed, 
And  mark  the  earth  with  passion.     Love 

will  spring 
From  the  lone  tomb  of  old  Affections — 

Hope 
And  Joy  and  great  Ambition,  will  rise  up 
As  they  have  risen — ^and  their  deeds  will  be 
Brighter  than  those  engraven  on  the  scroll 
Of  parted  centuries.     Even  now  the  sea 
Of  coming  years,  beneath  whose  mighty 

waves 
Life's  great  events  are  heaving  into  birth, 
Is  tossing  to  and  fro,  as  if  the  winds 
Of  heaven  were  prisoned  in  its  soundless 

depths 
And  struggling  to  be  free. 

Weep  not,  that  Time 
Is  passing  on — it  will  ere  long  reveal 
A  brighter  era  to  the  nations.     Hark ! 
Along  the  vales  and  mountains  of  the  earth 
There  is  a  deep,  portentous  murmuring, 
Like  the  swift  rush  of  subterranean  streams. 
Or  like  the  mingled  sounds  of  earth  and  air. 
When  the  fierce  Tempest,  with  sonorous 

wing. 
Heaves  his   deep  folds  upon  the  rushing 

winds. 
And  hurries  onward  with  his  night  of  clouds 
Against  the  eternal  mountains.     'Tis  the 

voice 
Of  infant  Freedom — and  her  stirring  call 
Is  heard  and  answered  in  a  thousand  tones 
From  every  hill-top  of  her  western  home — 
And  lo— it  breaks  across  old  Ocean's  flood — 


126 


GEORGE   D.   PRENTICE. 


11 


And  •*  Freedom!  Freedom  T  is  the  answer- 
ing shout 
Of  nations  starting  from  the  spell  of  yoam. 
Tlie  day-spring! — see — ^*tis  brightening  in 

the  heavens ! 
The  watchmen  of  the  night  liave  caught 

the  sign — 
From  tower  to  tower  the  signal-fires  flash 

free — 
And  the  deep  watch-word,  like  the  rush  of 

seas 
That  heralds  the  volcano's  bursting  flame, 
Is  sounding  o'er  the  earth.     Bright  ycBJK 

oi  hope 
And  life  are  on  the  wing ! — Yon  glorious  bow 
(>f  Freedom,  bended  by  the  hand  of  God, 
Is  s|mnning  Time's  dark  surges.     Its  high 

Arch, 
A  type  of  Love  and  Mercy  on  the  cloud, 
T(*lLs,  tliat  the  many  storms  of  human  life 


Was  beating  high,  as  if  a  •pHng 

there 
To  buoy  me  np,  where  I   migbl 

roam 
Mid  the  unfathomed  vastnes*  of  tbe 
And  dwell  with  those  bright  stan»  m 

their  light 
Poured  down  upon  the  earth  like  de 
From  the  bright  urns  of  Naiads ! 

Beautiful  rt 
What  are  ye?    There  is  in  mj  be 

hearts 
A  fount  that  heaves  beneath  700, 12 

deep 

Beneath  the  glories  of  the  midniglit  1 

And  list — ^your  Eden-tones  are  flontin 

Around  me  like  an  element— so  slow 

So  mildly  beaotiful,  I  almost  deem 

That  ye  are  there,  the  living  harps  oi 

O  cr   which   the   inoense-winds  of 
stray. 


Heavens. 


Will  {mss  in  silence,  and  the  sinking  waves, 
Gutlicring  the  forms  of  gbrj-  and  of  peacit, !  And  wake  such  tones  of  mystie  mini 
lliflcct  the  undimmed  brightness  of  the  As  well  might  wander  down  to  fk 

world 
To  fashion  dreams  of  heaven !     Fed 

jH'al  on — 
Nature's  high  anthem!   for  mj  Wi 

cau«rht 
A  |K)rtion  of  your  purity  and  power, 
And  s(*ems  but  as  a  sweet  and  giorios 
Of  wild  star-music ! 

Blessed,  blessed  tliia| 
Ye  arc  in  heaven,  and  I  on 

so«il. 
Even  with  a  whirlwind's  rush, 
off- 


THE  8TARS. 


I 


Those  burning  «tars!  what  are  they  ? 

have  dreamed 
That  they  were  blossoms  on  the  tree  of  lift*. 
Or  glory  flung  back  from  the  outspn^ad 

wings 
Of  (hmI*!)  Archangels  ;  or  tliat  yon  blue  1'<>  v^^i*  immortal  rc*alms,  but  it 

^ki«*s  j  Lik(*  your  own  ancient  Pleiad,  fiv 

With  all  tlieir  gorgeous  blazonry  of  g^'m^'  hri;:lit, 

Wrn*  a  bright  Imnncr  waving  oVr  the  ranh  T""  *lii"  its  ni*w-<*aught  glories  in  the 
Fnmi  thf  tar  wall  of  liravt-n !    And  I  havf   I'^'i^  tarih  i-  vi-ry  bcautituL     I  lore 

•"•^^  lu  wiMrmc-is  of  flowers,  its  bright  c 

A:m1  «lr:iiik  th«'ir  pi-hinjr;:lory,  till  I  ftlt  'tIi«-  ni:iji--ty  «>f  mountains  and  the « 
Tlnir  f\\\<\i  t'Wtr'w  tn'niblin;:  with  the  •l<M*p'M:i;.miti«'«iif«'  of  <Ki-nn— for  they  gob 
An.l  Mn.ii-r  vibnition  iK.wn  thr  living  win' Likr  vi«.ions  on  my  heart;  bat  wl 
Of  cliainlos  i»<L<sion  ;  an«l  my  ever}'  pulM'j         l<Kik 


1890-40.] 


GEORGE   D.   PRENTICE. 


127 


On  your  un&ding  loveliness,  I  feel 
Like  a  lost  infiint  gazing  on  its  home. 
And  weep  to  die,  and  come  where  je  repose 
Upon  yon  boundless  heaven,  like  parted 

souls 
On  an  eternity  of  blessedness. 


SABBATH  EVENING. 

How  calmly  sinks  the  parting  sun  1 

Yet  twilight  lingers  still; 
And  beautiful  as  dreams  of  heaven 

It  slumbers  on  the  hill ; 
Earth  sleeps,  with  all  her  glorious  things, 
Beneath  the  Holy  Spirit's  wings. 
And,  rendering  back  the  hues  above, 
Seems  resting  in  a  trance  of  love. 

Round  yonder  rocks,  the  forest-trees 

In  shadowy  groups  recline. 
Like  saints  at  evening  bowed  in  prayer 

Around  their  holy  shrine ; 
And  through  their  leaves  the  night-winds 

blow. 
So  calm  and  still,  their  music  low 
Seems  the  mysterious  voice  of  prayer. 
Soil  echoed  on  the  evening  air. 

And  yonder  western  throng  of  clouds, 

Retiring  from  tlie  sky. 
So  calmly  move,  so  soflly  glow, 
'  They  seem  to  Fancy's  eye 
Bright  creatures  of  a  better  sphere, 
Come  down  at  noon  to  worship  here, 
And  from  their  sacrifice  of  love. 
Returning  to  their  home  above. 

The  blue  isles  of  the  golden  sea. 
The  night-arch  floating  high. 

The  flowers  that  gaze  upon  the  heavens, 
The  bright  streams  leaping  by, 

Are  li\'ing  with  religion— deep 

On  earth  and  sea  its  glories  sleep. 


And  mingle  with  the  starlight  rays, 
Like  the  soft  light  of  parted  days. 

The  spirit  of  the  holy  eve 

Comes  through  the  silent  air 
To  feeling's  hidden  spring,  and  wakes 

A  gush  of  music  there ! 
And  the  far  depths  of  ether  beam 
So  passing  fair,  we  almost  dream 
That  we  can  rise,  and  wander  through 
Their  open  paths  of  trackless  blue. 

Each  soul  is  filled  with  glorious  dreams, 

Each  pulse  is  beating  wild ; 
And  thought  is  soaring  to  the  shrine 

Of  glory  undefiled  1 
And  holy  aspirations  start, 
Like  blessed  angels,  from  the  heart, 
And  bind — ^for    earth's  dark  ties  are 

riven — 
Our  spirits  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 


WRITTEN  AT  BTT  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

The  trembling  dew-drops  fall 
Upon  the  shutting  flowers ;  like  souls  at  rest 
The  stars  shine  gloriously :  and  all 
Save  me,  are  blest 

Mother,  I  love  thy  grave  I 
The  violet,  with  its  blossoms  blue  and  mild. 
Waves  o'er  thy  head ;  when  shall  it  wave 
Above  thy  child  I 

Tls  a  sweet  flower,  yet  must 
Its  bright  leaves  to  the  coming  tempest  bow; 
Dear  mother,  'tis  thine  emblem ;  dust 
Is  on  thy  brow. 

And  I  could  love  to  die : 
To  leave  untasted  life's  dark,  bitter  streams : 
By  thee,  as  erst  in  childhood,  lie, 
And  share  thy  dreams. 


ItH 


QEUKUE    D.   TRENTICE 


And  muht  I  linger  Lere, 
Tu  ulitiii  tliL-  {iluinii^  of  tny  einleu  jrearx, 
And  nioum  the  lioiMfi  to  cliildliuod  dvor 
With  biUcr  tears  ? 

Aj,  tnuHt  I  linger  lierc, 
A  liincly  brunch  upon  a  withered  tree, 
Whose  law  fniii  lenf,  untimtlj-  sere, 
Went  down  with  thcu  ? 

Oft,  from  life's  witliered  bower, 
In  Ptill  communion  with  tlie  post,  I  turn. 
And  muse  on  lliee.  the  only  flower 
In  Memory's  um. 

AniL  when  the  evening  pale, 
Bow!i,  like  a  moumcr.on  the  dim, blue  wave. 
I  ftruy  to  hair  iln.-  iii|:hi -winds  wail 
Around  thy  gravr. 

When-  i*  thy  spirit  flown? 
I  gn^i'  alwve — thy  look  in  itna^prd  there ; 
I  listen — and  thy  gentle  tone 
1*  on  the  air. 


I        Oil,  eirtiie,  while  here  I  pn*!is 

]  Myl>rowiiiKinlhy(trave;nnd.inthowmiId 
'         Anil  ihritling  maeii  uf  teiidemesi<, 
I  Itk-Ks,  bleid  (by  ehild! 

I         Yf«,  hill*  thy  wcfjiirg  c'hiH ; 

I  Anil  (I'lT    thine   urn — Iteligion's    holiei't 

I         Uh.  give  hi->  xjiirit.  uiidi-tili-d, 
I  To  blend  with  thine. 


ll<  .-.-I,..-,  nill  li»i,'di.-.l. 

And  tl will  li-t  il-^  Ikw.  wild  tonea 

Ni>ni<.r.'.  {.i.l>'  ti.'iim.l>ri.le! 


I  would  Dot,  lovely  one,  that  thou 
Sliuuldst  wrung  tlie  heart  that  detsu  ibcc  • 
now 
Its  glory  and  its  pride ;  j 

I  would  not  thou  r^houldst  dim  with  tcui 
Tlic  virion  ol'  its  better  ycaih 

And  yet  I  love  thee !     Memory*!  vowe       ! 

Comes  o'er  nie,  like  tlie  lone 
Of  bloiisoms,  w]i.ii  tl,..ir  d.'wy  leavea  ; 

In  autuninV  4ii;.'lii-wii>il-  moon.  i 

I  love  thei!  t^till !     Tluii  lo>k  of  thinc 
Deep  in  my  sjiirit  has  its  ahrine, 

And  beautiful  and  kme;  ' 

And  there  it  glowM — that  holy  fima — 
The  rainbow  of  life's  evening  itvniL 

And,  dear  one,  when  I  guv  on  tbee, 

So  pallid,  sweet,  and  frail. 
And  iiiu:>e  u[ioii  thy  ebeek,  I  weD 

Can  read  ii-  iimunitul  Ui!e; 
1  know  the  dew*  of  meowij  oft 
iVn;  fulling,  Unuiil'iil  aixl  eoti, 

UiK>wlov,.,l,lu.«^,m-|"J'^i 
I  know  thill  ii-nni  tliou  fain  woaUit  Ude 
Are  on  thy  lidi^  sweet  vietim<brid& 

I,  tiNi.  have  wept.     Yon  moon'a  pale  light 

lias  round  my  pillow  strayed. 
While  I  WHS  tiKiuniini:  o'er  the  dreuM 

Tliat  M..<-i.ni.-<l  but  to  fa<le. 
Till'  m'-iniiry  v(  i-ueh  l«dy  eve. 
To  whii'h  «iir  litiiiiing  spirits  cleave, 

Sfinis  liki;  ^mi-  i-tur's  sweet  »hadc^ 
That  unr-''  -biini'  l<ri;:hl  and  pure  oa  higb, 
Itut  now  liiL>  [Kirted  I'lvm  ilie  sky. 

Iinin^.il  visions  i>t'  the  heart ! 

A;:iiin,  a-mui  farewell! 
1  will  not  li-l.  u  l.>  i)»-  tunes 

Tl.;il  in  wild  mu-ii-  !.weil 
Fn'm  ihi-  <[iii)  [>ii>i.     Tlim^-  tone*  now  Ut 
And  l-':>«-'  w-  nothing  but  iIh-  shade, 

Th.ri|.r.-,  i.tj.lih.kmli: 
A.li.i,— :..li...i :     MyiJL-kisdom-i 
And  »..w.  (;,.)  bU,5  thee,  gentle  one  I 


30-40.] 


GEORGE  D.   PRENTICE. 


129 


MAMMOTH  CAVE. 

LL  dajy  as  day  is  reckoned  on  the 
earthy 

re  wandered  in  these  dun  and  awful 
aislesy 

lut  from  the  blue  and  breezy  dome  of 
heaven, 

''bile  thoughts,  wild,  drear,  and  shadowy, 
have  swept 

cross  my  awe-struck  soul,  like  specters 
o'er 

he  wizard's  magic  glass,  or  thunder- 
clouds 

'cr  the  blue  waters  of  the  deep.  And 
now 

U  sit  me  down  upon  yon  broken  rock 

0  muse  upon  the  strange  and  solemn 
things 

r  this  mysterious  realm. 

All  day  my  steps 
ave  been  amid  the  beautiful,  the  wild, 
le  gloomy,  the  terrific     Crystal  founts 
Imost  invisible  in  their  serene 
nd    pure    transparency — high,    pillar'd 

domes 
ith  stars  and  flowers  all  fretted  Uke  the 

halls 
*  Oriental  monarchs — rivers  dark 
ad   drear  and    voiceless    as    oblivion's 

stream, 
tiat  flows  through  Death's  dim  vale  of  si- 
lence— gulfs 
II  fathomless,  down  which  the  loosened 

rock 
lunges  until  its  far-off  echoes  come 
ainter  and  fainter  like  the  dying  roll 
f  thunders  in  the  distance — Stygian  pools 
hose  agitated  waves  give  back  a  sound 
ollow  and  dismal,  like  the  sullen  roar 

1  the  volcano's  depths — ^these,  these  have 

left 
icir  9pell  upon  me,  and  their  memories 
ave  pasi^ed  into  my  t>pirit,  and  are  now 
lent  with  my  being  till  they  seem  a  part 
f  my  own  inunortality. 


God's  hand. 
At  the  creation,  hollowed  out  this  vast 
Domain  of  darkness,  where  no  herb  nor 

flower 
E'er  sprang  amid  the  sands,  nor  dews  nor 

rains, 
Nor  blessed  sunbeams  fell  with  freshening 

power. 
Nor  gentle  breeze  its  Eden  message  told 
Amid  the  dreadful  gloom.     Six  thousand 

years 
Swept  o'er  the  earth  ere  human  footprints 

marked 
This  subterranean  desert     Centuries 
Like  shadows  came  and  passed,  and  not  a 

sound 
Was  in  this  realm,  save  when  at  intervals, 
In  the  long  lapse  of  ages,  some  huge  mass 
Of  overhanging  rock  fell  thundering  down. 
Its  echoes  sounding  through  these  corridors 
A  moment,  and  then  dying  in  a  hush 
Of  silence,  such  as  brooded  o'er  the  earth 
When  earth  was  chaos.     The  great  Mas- 
todon, 
The  dreaded  monster  of  the  elder  world. 
Passed  o'er  this  mighty  cavern,  and  his 

tread 
Bent  the  old  forest  oaks  like  fragile  reeds 
And  made  earth  tremble ;  armies  in  their 

pride 
Perchance  have  met  above  it  in  the  shock 
Of  war  with  shout  and  groan,  and  clarion 

blast, 
And   the   hoarse  echoes  of   the  thunder 

gun; 
The  storm,  the  whirlwind,  and  the  hurri- 
cane 
Have  roared  above  it,  and  the  bursting 

cloud 
Sent  down  its  red  and  crashing  thunder- 
bolt; 
Earthquakes  have  trampled  o'er  it  in  their 

wrath, 
Rocking  earth's  surface  as  the  storm-wind 

rocks 
Tlie  old  Atlantic ;  yet  no  sound  of  these 


130 


(:KC)U(;K   I).    PRENTfCE. 


[]fQO-NL 


P1*(T  came  down  to  tlie  everlasting  depths 
Ot'  thc^le  dark  5oIitude!>. 

How  oA  we  pAze 
AVith  awe  or  admiration  on  tlii*  new 
And  unfamiliar,  but  pawi  coldly  by 
The  lovcIiiT  and  the  migliticr !    Wonder- 
ful 
Is  this  lone  world  of  darkness  and  of  gloom, 
Uut  far  more  wonderful  yon  outer  world 
Lit   by  the  glorious  sun.     These  arches 

swell 
Sublime  in  lone  and  dim  magnificence. 
But  how  sublimer  God's  blue  cano|>y 
Ki'lcagucred  with  his  burning  cherubim 
Ki*eping  their  watch  eternal!     Beautiful 
Are  all  the  thousand  snow-white  gems  that 

lie 
In  these  mysterious  chamber.^  gleaming  out 
Amid  the  melancholy  glcKim,  and  wild 
Thems  rocky  hills  and  clifls,  and  gultV*,  but 

far 
More  beautiful  and  wild  the  things  that 

greet 
The  wanderer  in  our  world  of  light — the 

stars 
Fkuiting  on  high  like  islands  of  the  blest — 
The  autumn  sunsets  glowing  like  the  gate 
Of  far-oft'  Paradise ;  the  gorgeou**  clouds 
(>n  which  the  glories  of  the  earth  and  sky 
Meet  and  (*(>niniingle ;  eartlfs  unnumbere<l 

flowers 
All  turning  up  their  gentle  eyes  to  heaven  ; 
The  binls  with  bright  wings  glancing  in 

the  sun, 
Prilling  the  air  with  rainlmw  miniatun*s ; 
'Hie  gn»en  old  fon-sts  surging  in  the  grilo  ; 
The  evcrhisting  mountains  on  wh(»se  pf'ak?^ 
The  setting  sun  bums  like  an  altar-thinie  ; 
Aitit  <H*<'an,  likr  a  pun-  heart  n-ndcrin^^bark 
I  l«'avrn*s  ])ert*e«'t  image,  or  in  hi->  wild  wntth 
lit  ;t\iii"  and  ti»s>ln;:  like  llif  *lt»riiiv  l»n  a-: 
(M*  a  ihaini'd  giant  hi  his  agtmy. 


TO  AN  ABSENT  WIFE.* 

'Ti9  Mom : — the  sea  breeie  wems  to  farii^ 
•Joy,  health,  and  fre<>hness  on  itii  wing; 
Bright  flowers,  to  me  all  stnuige  and 
Are  glittering  in  the  early  dew« 
And  perfumes  ri>e  from  every  giofe» 
As  inc4*nse  to  the  clouds  tluit  more 
Like  spirim  o*er  yon  welkin  cleary*- 
But  I  am  sad — thou  art  not  here  I 


*Tis  Noon : — a  cahn,  unbroken  sleep 
Is  on  the  blue  waves  of  the  deep ; 
A  soil  haze,  like  a  fairy  dream. 
Is  floating  over  wood  and  btream. 
And  many  a  broad  magnolia  flowerv 
Within  its  sluidowy  woodland  bower, 
1 4  gleaming  like  a  lovely  starve- 
But  I  am  sad — thou  art  afar ! 


Tis  Eve :— on  earth  the  sunset  skk 
I  Are  painting  their  own  Eden  dyes; 
I  The  ftars  come  down  and  trembling  gkm^ 
'  Lik«f  blossom^  on  the  waves  below. 
And  like  an  unseen  sprite,  the  breeae 
StM'uis  ling«*ring  'midst  these  oruige4rea^ 
Bn*athiiig  its  music  round  the  spot,-* 
But  I  am  sad — I  see  thee  not ! 

'Tis  Midnight: — with  a  mothing apell 
The  far-oft'  tontrs  of  ocean  swells 
Sotl  as  a  mother's  cadence  mild, 
I^w  lieniling  o'er  her  sleeping  chiM ; 
And  on  i*a<'h  wandering  breeze 
The  ri(*h  notes  of  th«;  mocking-bird. 
In  many  a  wild  ami  wondnHis  lay,^ 
:  But  I  am  sad — thou  art  awaj ! 

I  sink  in  dn*ani< : — low,  sweet,  and 
Thy  «»wn  ilrar  \ui<t»  is  in  my  ear:- 
AnKuid  mv  rhfik  tliv  tn."^ses  twi 
Thy  iiivn  Ii»\ftl  hand  is  e1a'<|N*d  in  mi 
iThv  own  Hitt  li|i  to  mint'  i«  presa'ed 
Thy  hfail  i,  pilhtwid  on  my  brraM; 
<  )h.  I  have  all  my  hmrt  holils  dear. 
Ami  I  am  happy — thmi  art  here  I 


*  \l  mtrn  ■!  BUnxl. 


GEORGE   D.   PRENTICE. 


131 


TO  A  POETESS. 

d  kneel  before  thj  shrine, 
dnstrel  of  the  Eden-lyre, 
me  each  word  of  thine 
diant  with  a  eoul  of  fire. 

Gitch  thj  fency's  wing 
i  breath  of  beauty  rise, 
1  in  glory's  sunbeams  spring 
he  poet's  paradise. 

t  bowed,  in  silence  bowed, 
ly  spirit's  burning  gleams, 
dew  in  gloiy  crowd 
>ns  of  thy  sun-bright  dreams. 

passion  wakes  thy  lyre, 
3  its  music  sweet, 
lionght  is  touched  with  fire, 
rt  and  pulse  in  wildness  beat 

seems  more  beautiful, 

•ed  in  thy  song — ^her  bowers 

ir  sounds  the  spirit  lull, 

is  go  lightlier  o'er  the  flowers. 

»f  the  evening  fills 
ting  rose  with  softer  dew, 
dream  is  on  the  hills, 
he  waves  a  deeper  blue. 

er  hue  at  twilight  hour, 
ler  of  the  sunset  gleams, 
birds  and  gentle  flowers 
lier  to  their  blessed  dreams. 

w  o'er  the  evening  sky 
ghter,  loftier  arch  is  thrown, 
le  sea-shell's  mournful  sigh 
ig  in  a  wilder  tone. 

9'oice  of  childhood  flows 
gingly  upon  the  air, 


And  with  a  heavenlier  fervor  glows 
The  eloquence  of  praise  and  prayer. 

The  lost  ones  that  we  loved  so  well. 
Come  back  to  our  deserted  bowers ; 

Upon  the  breeze  their  voices  swell. 
And  their  dear  hands  are  clasped  in  ours. 

Thy  genius  wanders  wild  and  free 
'Mid  all  things  beautiful  and  bless'd, 

For  the  young  heart  is  like  the  sea. 
That  wears  heaven's  picture  on  its  breast 

And  as  thy  muse  her  soul  of  fire 

In  high  and  glorious  song  is  breathings 

Thy  hand  around  thy  country's  lyre 
A  deathless  coronal  is  wreathing. 


A  WISH. 

In  Southern  seas,  there  is  an  isle. 
Where  earth  and  sky  forever  smile ; 
Where  storms  cast  not  their  somber  hue 
Upon  the  welkin's  holy  blue ; 
Where  clouds  of  blessed  incense  rise 
From  myriad  flowers  of  myriad  dyes, 
And  strange  bright  birds  glance  through 

the  bowers. 
Like  mingled  stars  or  mingled  flowers. 

Oh,  dear  one,  would  it  were  our  lot 

To  dwell  upon  that  lovely  spot, 

To  stray  through  woods  with  blossoms 

starred, 
Bright  as  the  dreams  of  seer  or  bard, 
To  hear  each  other^s  whispered  words 
'Mid  the  wild  notes  of  tropic  birds, 
And  deem  our  lives  in  those  bright  bowers 
One  glorious  dream  of  love  and  flowers. 


WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER. 


William  Davis  Gallaoher  was  bom  in  FliiluiMphia,  Aupwt,  1808i.  ffi 
futht.T  wns  an  Irishman,  who  emi^n^tcd  from  his  nativr  <*ountr}'  bo(raii»e  he  had  ben 
a  |)urti(ripant  in  the  rv*hi'llion,  on  ar(*ount  of  which  Kr)lN*rt  Kinroett  waii  a  maiiTr 
His  mother  wa^  a  dnii^hter  of  one  of  the  hand  of  "'Teisey  Bhies"  diMingauhed  in  ik 
AV'.\r  for  Ameri<'an  Tnde(Mfndeni.re.  In  IK16,  Mr.^.  Galhi^rher,  then  a  widow,  remoToi 
with  four  M>ns,  of  wht>m  WiUiam  wafl  the  third,  from  Phihidelphia  to  CincinnalL  Bi 
wa<«  put  on  a  farm,  where  he  worked  three  years,  atteiidinf;  a  distrid  nchool  time 
muntli*!  eae}i  winter.  lie  was  eOTn|)arative]y  an  iiidu>trious  pupil,  but  wa«  known  M 
a  boy  who  loved  to  hold  communion  with  trees*,  nx'ks,  tlowen«,  and  brooks,  bettor  tkn 
to  eon  hrssons  or  r<*<*ite  ta»ks  in  the  s<>hool-room.  In  1>^'21,  William  was  nppmtied 
to  a  printtT  in  Cincinnati.  He  was  distin^ishe<l  amonp  hi^  companioiM  as  a  stadal 
of  litcnitun*,  and  in  18'24,  while  yet  an  apprentice,  published  for  serend  mooChii 
umiiW  litt*nu*}'  pa{H'r.  the  c«)ntcnts  of  which  were  chielly  fnim  his  pen.  He  beeiM 
then  a  constant  contributor  to  several  journals,  writin<r  essays  and  poemfi  over  van 
ous  pseudonymes.  In  1H27,  Mr.  Oalla(;her  and  Otway  Curry — aft  **  Roderick  **  ai 
^'  Alxlallah  ** — maintaineil  a  friendly  rivalry  in  the  columns  of  the  CYnrTimafi  dnM* 
irh  and  Cinrinnafi  SetitiNel^  which  wa«  the  occasion  of  much  inqnuy  and  maiij  6Im 
chiir^re-a  of  authorship. 

Mr.  Oalla^iher  was  not  known  as  a  writer  till  IH2>^.  when.  dnrin<;  a  joumej  thrall 
Kentucky  and  Mi^ssi^sipjii.  hi»  wmte  a  s*»ries  of  ptipulnr  letters,  whieh  were  pablnM 
in  the  Cincinnati  Siittinhy  Errning  Chrontrh.  Two  years  later  he  became  ihl 
e<Iit4>r  of  the  /ittrl'trooffsman^  puhli^htMl  at  Xenia,  Dliio.  a  vi;romus  advocate  of  Hcan 
Clay  as  a  candithite  for  Pn'>ident  of  the  Vnited  States.  Literature  wan,  howeitr. 
mon*  congenial  than  |M)litics;  and  when,  in  \X-M.  John  II.  Wood,  at  that  dmt  i 
lMN)k>elIer  in  Cincinnati,  prnjected  a  liteniry  |HTiiKlie:il.  and  invite«l  Mr.  GiaUaghcrM 
take  the  editorial  c}iar<;e  of  it,  the  invitation  wa<«  ])n)mpt]y  aovpttni.  As  soon  as  da 
M's-t-isary  arran;renn*nts  were  complett»<l,  the  Chirinnnti  ^Ftrrnr^  the  fourth  filCIBfJ 
)i)M'r  publishtMl  west  of  the  Alh-trliany  Mountains,  nimh*  it«  ap|M'anincc.  It  WBf  ii 
i'<i  externals  superior  to  any  pn*vious  peril nliral  <»f  th:(t  city.  It  wa-*  a  smaD  qoMti 
,ir'  fjrrht  |mf?(*s,  print4'<l  semi-monthly  on  tine  ]ia]HT  with  iNMiutiful  type.  In  all  ia 
•  l«'|>artments  the  most  scrupulous  onh-r  ami  prnpritty  wen*  obser\*ed.  The  Jfiirrv 
:i>-ipiin'd  a  hi^li  n'put.ition,  and  \\<  cir'nlatinn  in  the  Mi^M^^ippi  Valley  was,  fbr  ikl 
p"riiHl  in  whii'h  it  tloiiri^h*-il,  Vfry  extiMi-ive.  At  the  lH'<jinninf;  of  the  third 
Mr.  ( lulla^rlier  wa*' joined  in  the  eniiTpri<e  by  Tho*i.  II.  Shn've,  and  the 
ship  as  well  as  the   editorship  of  the  |»:i)nt  iKt-sfil  into  the   hands  of  these 


I  WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER.  133 

St  nomber  of  the  Mxrror^  enlarged  and  changed  to  a  weekly,  was  issued  by 
e  &  Gallagher,"  in  November,  1833.  The  new  proprietors,  young  and  full  of 
ent  to  work  industriously  to  build  up  a  lofty  reputation  for  their  paper.  It  is 
i  the  "  patronage  "  given  to  the  Mirror  at  first,  was  wholly  inadequate  to  its 
;  but  the  editors  trusted  that  a  quick-coming  future  would  amply  remunerate 
r  their  outlay  of  money  and  labor.  Each  week  brought  considerable  accessions 
list  of  subscribers.  IVIidnight  often  found  the  publishers  busily  engaged,  get- 
their  paper  to  its  subscribers,  who  were  enjoying  comfortable  slumbers,  and 
iming  of  paymg  the  printer.  But  they  labored  in  hope,  and  thus  buoyed  up 
itinued  to  work  manfully  with  both  heads  and  hands,  firm  in  the  faith  that 
Mid  reputation  would  come.  At  the  expiration  of  the  first  year  they  found 
ves  largely  out  of  pocket ;  but  with  subscription  lists  on  which  were  the  names 
)ns  in  various  States  of  the  Confederacy,  they  entered  on  the  second  year 
ttering  prospects.  In  April,  1835,  the  Chronicle,  edited  at  that  time  by  James 
idns,  was  purchased  by  him  and  merged  into  the  Mirror,  which  was  thence- 
iiblished  by  T.  H.  Shreve  &  Co.,  and  edited  by  Gallagher,  Shreve  and  Peiv 
[t  was  continued  by  them  until  the  close  of  the  year,  when,  from  ill  health  and 
msiderations,  they  saw  fit  to  accept  an  offer  for  the  concern,  and  sold  it  to 
B.  Marshall,  who  changed  the  name  of  the  paper  to  The  Buckeye.  Mr.  M. 
ind  published  it  for  three  months,  and  then  disposed  of  it  to  Flash,  Ryder  & 
o  kept  a  bookstore  on  Third  street,  which  was  then  a  place  of  resort  for  the 
of  the  Queen  City.  The  new  proprietors  secured  the  services  of  Mr.  Galla- 
d  Mr.  Shreve  as  editors,  and  changed  the  name  of  the  paper  back  to  that  of  the 
uuti  Mirror.  It  was  not  long  before,  owing  to  some  disagreement  between  the 
and  proprietors,  touching  the  conduct  of  the  paper,  the  former  vacated  their 

They  were  succeeded  by  J.  Reese  Fry,  who  conducted  the  Mirror  for  a  few 
,  when  it  was  abandoned. 

me,  1836,  Mr.  Gallagher  became  the  editor  of  the  Western  Liter cary  Journal 
iithiy  Review — Smith  and  Day  publishers.  It  was  a  handsomely  printed  mag- 
r  forty-eight  pages.  The  publishers  were  enterprising — ^the  editor  had  experi- 
he  chief  writers  of  the  West  sent  him  articles,  but  the  fates  were  against  suo- 
d,  in  1837,  the  Literary  Journal  was  discontinued. 

16  early  part  of  1835,  Mr.  Gallagher  published  "  Erato  No.  I." — a  duodecimo 
et  of  thirty-six  pages.  It  was  dedicated  to  Timothy  Flint,  and  bore  the  im- 
*  Alexander  Flash.     The  chief  poem  was  entitled  "  The  Penitent,  a  Metrical 

Among  the  minor  poems  were  "  The  Wreck  of  the  Hornet "  (the  first  poem 
[r.  Gallagher's  pen  which  attracted  general  public  attention),  "  Eve's  Banish- 
md  **  To  my  Mother."  A  flattering  reception  was  given  "  Erato,"  and  in  August^ 
It.  Gallagher  made  a  second  selection  from  the  contents  of  his  literary  wallet, 
rato  No.  II.,"  containing  sixty  pages,  was  published  by  Mr.  Flash.  The  princi- 
m  was  "  The  Conqueror,  a  Vision."  Among  the  poems  in  "  Erato  No.  II.," 
have  come  down  to  the  present  generation,  were  "  August,"  and  "  The  Mount- 
hs."     "  Erato  No.  IIL,"  containing  sixty  pages,  though  published  by  Alexander 


134  WILLIAM    I).  GALLAGHER.  ri«»-IL  • 

I 

Fliu*4h  at  CiiK'iiinuti,  w:i8  print (*d  at  tho  City  Gazette  office,  Lounrillef  Kentucky,  m 
Miiy,  18^7.     Id  the  prvtact;,  Mr.  GulbightT  said: 


ThJM  Vitlume  coiitaiiiH  ak  iti*  IfodiiiK  piece  "  CadwuUen,  a  Talo  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody 
aiul  cldHcH  i\xv.  MTit^  Wiib  it  tiTiiiinatrK,  liki-wiM>,  ai  Ii-umi  fur  a  tiux.*,  tin*  writer *i 
aspirant  for  |)oetic  bononi.  If  Lih  trideH  are  to  be  ri.'ini'mb«'n-cl  a  little  while,  th«re 
enoii}ch  of  thi-m  ;  if  thfy  are  to  tH.>  forgnttiMi  nt  once,  too  many.  l'i>ei*y  bar  been  M#l«ly  a  aaikr  if 
liive  with  him.  aud  be  eouceivti*  that  be  h:iJ4  done  quite  enough  to  di'tennine  whetber  be  baa  "Itft'd 
wimdy.*' 

^  ^lay  **  and  *'  TIm'  Mothers  of  the  T\>dt "  were  among  tho  miscellaneoiu  pooM  cf 
'*  Knito  No.  III.**     It  was  very  Ikvonildy  recrivcd.     Iti^  author,  by  good  authorixy, 
£ust  OS  wfll  OS  We.*4t,  wort  well  ostsun.'d  that  he  had  ^  IovihI  wisudy  ;**  but  lilenry 
lahon*,  however  industriously  pursueil,  were  not  n'munerativc  in  Ohio  in  1837,  aid 
Mr.  (jiallagher  adhered  to  his  resolution  to  al)and(jn  |ioetic  Uborsy  ^  at  lesM  Ibr  a 
tirnc."     Soon  ai\er  the  publication  of  ^  Erato  No.   III.,"  he  became  aiisocialcd  wiik 
his  brother  John  M.,  in  the  management  of  the  ifhio  Stale  Journal,  a  dailj  Wkii 
paper  at  Columbus.     Though  busily  oiTupii*<l  in  that  cupaeity,  and  al  the  aame  liae 
legislative  correspondent  of  the  Cincinnati  Gazette^  he  engaged,  soon  after  hh  r^ 
moval  to  Columbus,  with  Otway  Cunn'  hi  tlie  publication  of  a  magasiiiey  cntitM 
l^he  Hesperian^  a  Monthly  Miscellany  of  General  Literature.     The  firM  number  a^ 
pt*ared  in  May,  ItSM,     Thn*e  volumes  at  $2.50  a  volume,  running  through  a  pcrioi 
of  eighteen   months,  were   published;   tlte   second   and   third   volumes   Mr.   Gaflb- 
gher  conducted  alone.     The  Hesperian  was  valued  highly  for  its  critical  and 
ical  articlt*s,  mainly  writtt*n  by  the  (*<litor,  and  for  its  jxietic  and  novelette 
mcnts,  which  were  lilled  with   original  (rontributions  fnmi  writem  who  hare 
national  reputations  ;  among  whom  may  be  mentioned  Otway  Curry,  Frederick  W. 
Thomas,  S.  P.  Ilildretb,  CitHirgft  I).  Pn*ntice,  Lnuni  M.  Thurston,  Amelia  B.  Wcftj. 
James  W.  WanI,  Julia   L.  Dumont,  Tlmnias   II.  Shivve,  J:uues  IL  l*el4i■^■i 
Daniel  Drake.     The  subscription  list  was  larg«*r  than  liatl  lieon  se<Mired  by  anj  cf  ill 
pn^ih^v'ssors,  but  not  enough  to  sii]>iK>rt  it;  and  a^iain  Mr.  GalLigher  was  led  fimmlk 
pursuit  of  literature  to  the  rec<»nl  lUid  diM>u>.*«ioM  of  |M>litii*al  doctrines  and 
He  was  invited  by  Charles  Hammond  to  a>>ist  him  in  the  editing  of  the 
Gasefte,  the  oldest,  most  sm*ct>ssful,  and  then  a)de*>t  (LiiU  iKi]H*r  in  the  West.     Ueb^ 
tame  an  editor  of  the  Gazette  in  the  latter  |Nirt  of  the  year  IH.'iQ,  and  continued  to  give 
cluinu'ter  to  ita  litenirv  deuirtmentN  and  to  etlii-ieiitlv  a.'->i>t  in  its  political  eoadHi 
(with  the  exception  of  one  year,  when  he  conducted  a  ]N'iiny  daily  |)aper  called  Tii 
Mrssaye)  till  lH."*tL     In   IM.J'J,  xhv.  WestiTn  Colle;:e  of  Ti-aidiers  pas»ed 
of  thanks  to  Mr.  Gallagher  for  his  earnest  ndvrN*a<'y,  as  an  e«litor,  of  popular 
tion.     In  1841,  he  i*dite«l  a  volume  entitle<i  **The  Pm^tieal  Literature  of  the  WeM* 
— Htm  tain  ing  s(d(*ctions  fnmi  the  writings  uf  all  the  |MN*ts  then  generally  known  in  At 
Mis«i<^*>ippi  Valley.     It  was  a  duoilecimo  of  two  hundn*d  and  sixty-four  pageii    U* 
P.  Jame>,  a  gentleman  who  has  flone  mueh  to  enmuni^i*  Western  Literature,  wai  At 
publisher.     Thiny-eight  writer*  wen*  n*pn'*eniiMl— ^fvend  of  whom,  though  wenby 
of  more  resf^ect,  are  known  now  as  iK>eLs  chiefly  becaune  their  melrirul 


183^-40.]  WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER.  135 

were  then  rescued  from  the  obscurity  of  suspended  newspapers  and  magazines,  in 
which  their  paternity  had  never  been  acknowledged.  In  1842,  Mr.  Gallagher  was 
nominated  by  the  Whigs  of  Hamilton  county,  Ohio,  as  a  candidate  for  the  Legisla- 
ture, but  declined  to  run.  In  1849,  he  was  the  President  of  the  Ohio  Historical  and 
Philosophical  Society,  and  delivered  the  Annual  Address  on  the  ^'  Progress  and  Re- 
aoarces  of  the  North-West " — a  discourse  which  is  valuable  to  every  student  of  West- 
em  history. 

In  the  year  1850,  while  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Daily  Cincinnati  Gazette,  Mr. 
Gallagher  proceeded  to  Washington,  at  the  special  invitation  of  Thomas  Corwin,  and 
took  a  confidential  position  under  that  gentleman  in  the  Treasury  Department  A 
oontinuoos  connection  with  the  Western  newspaper  and  periodical  press,  of  full 
twenty  years  in  extent,  was  then  severed ;  and  although  Mr.  Gallagher  remained  in 
Washington  City  less  than  three  years,  and  then  returned  to  the  West,  it  has  not  since 
been  resumed,  except  for  a  short  period  in  1854,  when  he  was  one  of  the  editors  and 
proprietors  of  th^  Louisville  Courier. 

A  few  months  after  resuming  his  residence  in  the  West,  Mr.  Gallagher  moved 
upon  a  handsome  farm  which  he  had  purchased  in  Kentucky,  about  sixteen  miles  from 
the  city  of  Louisville,  on  the  Louisville  and  Lexington  Bailroad ;  and  there,  during 
the  last  five  or  six  years,  his  time  has  been  zealously  devoted  to  agricultural  and 
horticultural  pursuits — pursuits  that  were  the  delight  of  his  early  life,  and  are  now  the 
solace  and  pride  of  his  mature  years. 

While  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Gallagher's  pen  has  not  been  idle.  Several  of  the  highest 
prizes  in  agricultural  literature,  we  notice  by  the  official  reports,  have  recently  fallen 
to  his  share,  one  of  which  was  awarded  for  an  elaborate  essay  on  tlie  interesting  and 
congenial  subject  of  ^  Fruit  Culture  in  the  Ohio  Valley ."  He  has,  within  the  same 
time,  written  extensively  for  agricultural  papei-s,  and  is  now  a  regularly  engaged  con- 
tributor fi)r  two  journals  of  that  class.  He  has  also  projected  several  works  connected 
with  History,  Biography,  and  Progress  in  the  West,  and  is  collecting  materials  for  ^  A 
Social  and  Statistical  View  of  the  Mississippi  Valley,"  from  the  period  of  its  first 
settlement  to  the  present  day.  This  will  be  a  large  and  comprehensive  volume,  and 
is  designed  for  publication  immediately  afler  the  completion  of  the  national  census  for 
the  year  1860. 

During  his  residence  in  Washington,  Mr.  Gallagher^s  time  was  too  much  taken  up 
with  the  duties  of  his  position  for  the  frequent  indulgence  of  his  lttei*ary  tastes.  The 
poem  entitled  "Noctes  Divinorum,"  is  the  only  production  of  that  period  of  which  we 
have  any  knowledge.  It  was  almost  an  improvisation,  on  Pennsylvania  Avenue, 
transferred  to  paper  immediately  afler  witnessing  one  of  those  scenes  of  sin  and  suf- 
fering which  are  becoming  nearly  as  common  in  the  larger  cities  of  the  United  States 
as  in  the  corrupt  capitals  of  Europe. 

Since  his  return  to  the  West,  at  the  close  of  the  year  1852,  Mr.  Gallagher  has 
published  but  little  in  the  department  of  Belles-Lettres  proper.  Preserving  an  almost 
unbroken  silence,  through  a  long  self-imposed  seclusion,  his  name  has  died  into  an 


ir,C  WILLIAM    I>.    GALLAOIIKR.  [1B3»-Mi 

echo,  or  heroine  a  rare  sound  in  the  iiomes  \^'here  it  was  once  *'fiiiniliar  mb  a  hooir- 
hold  word."  Hut,  though  Mu<liou<'Iy  dc< -lining  nil  proflTiTfii  of  enjsagementB  in  the  spe- 
cial department  of  litcmtiire  m«'ntionf*d,  Mr.  Cialhi;:her  ha4  not  turned  his  ftce  fi« 
the  deep  fountainsi  and  the  hahhlin;^  hroolu  of  Son^.  lie  hajs  been  dividing  McL 
K'lHure  as  he  could  find  amid  his  other  pursuits  betwt^en  a  deliberate  and  serm 
revision  of  what  he  has  ah\*ady  written,  and  the  comphition  of  ** Miami  Woodi" — 
a  p04*m  of  considerable  comiuf^s,  in  whi«'h  his  |K)cti('al  fame,  whatever  it  may  be,  viD 
proluibly  culminate.  This  w<irk  of  revL<«ion  and  coinph'tion,  we  underBtand,  u  now 
en<l<'d:  hut  when  we  are  to  look  for  the  ^forthcoming;  volume,"  which  ha^  been  par* 
tially  promised  evezy  year  for  tlie  la^^t  five,  we  have  not  the  faintest  idea. 

^ Miami  Woods"  was  lH>^un  in  1830,  and  finished  in  18.')7.  Any  thinf;  more  thn 
this,  except  that  it  measures  the  heart-lx'atd  of  the  author  through  the  interriAing 
yearx,  and  sings 

"A  Holitary  fiorrrvw,  antheming 
A  loiivly  Kri*"f»** 

haM  not  iM'on  nrmde  known  of  it.  Fn»m  the  introductor}-  part,  an  extract  was  printed 
in  the  **  Selections  fmm  the  Poetical  Literature  of  the  West."  This  has  been  ofica 
n'pnhli'^lx^fl,  in  dif!en*nt  shaiM's,  as  one  of  the  most  characteristic  specimeiii  of  the 
author's  writings. 

The  present  may  he  a  pro|K>r  time  and  place  to  corn*ct  an  error  that  hat  crept  inio  i 
mckst  of  the  ••Collections"  and  ** Cycloj»«lias "  that  have  set  forth  the  achieTemeoti   I 
of  American  writers.     Mr.     Galla;:lifT  is  repn^sented  to  have  published  a  coUrciiua 
of  his  iMM'ms  in  the  year  184G.     This  is  a  mistidie,  tbun<ied  perhaps  on  one  of  hit   . 
unrt.'deemed  promises.  i 

As  an  editor,  Mr.  Gallagher  wa<«  distinguishiHl  for  zeal  in  the  encouragement  of  load   ! 
liteniry  talent,  and  for  earnest  advo(*aey  of  the  cau<e  of  ;>opular  education,  and  of  tlw   • 
teniiH.'nuii'e  and  other  moral  reforms,  as  well  as  for  vi^roixnis  hibors  designed  to  pi^ 
S4*rve  the  tiidiiif;  n*conis  of  the  early  history  of  the  Ohio  Valley,  and  to  make  known   I 
its  ra|»a<*iti**s  and  the  op(>ort unities  it  affonhnl  in!mi;;nints.     His  earlier  poems  aie    i 
m«*nionihl«'  for  a  ^niphic  ])ower,  hy  which  the  rivers  and  valleys  of  the  West,  the   I 
|H*riis  of  ih«r  pioni'ors  and  the  trials  of  the  early  S4'ttlrrs  an*  described;    his  kteronei 
an*  pervadrd  with  an  (•anif'>t  hnnianitary  >pirit,  which  ha^  won  tor  several  of  them  as 
wide  a  circulation  as  the  Anii'ri««an  |N'rio4 Ileal  pn'ss  <*an  ^live,  and  has  secured 


publication  in  nearly  all  th«*  cuinnion  M-hool  ri'aders  that  Itave  been  publu»hed  during 
the  hL«t  ten  y«*ars. 

Mr.  (iaila<rher  was  niarrii-d  to  Miss  Adainson  of  Cincinnati,  in  1831,  and  ts  the 
failHT  of  nine  chil<ln*n,  of  whom  one  Uty  and  tour  <rirls  an>  living. 

The  |M>em,  herealb-r  (pioird,  entiiled  ^  My  Fiftieth  Year,"  was  contributed  in 
munuMTtpt  for  thi>  vnhnn<*.  It  .«howN  that  th«*  >pirit  and  «'\pn*v*ion  of  poetry*,  which 
won  it->  aiiilior  warm  a(lniin*r>  thirty  y<'ars  ajio,  maiun-d  aiiii  richly  cultivated,  are  at 
his  ojiuniand  now. 


MMO.] 


WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER. 


137 


AUTUMN  IN  THE  WEST.* 

BTB  Autuxim  time  is  with  us! — ^Its  ap- 
proach 
'as  heralded,  not  mauj  days  ago, 
Y  hazy  skies,  that  vaiFd  the  brazen  sun, 
nd  sea-like  murmurs  from  the  rustling 

com, 
od  low-voiced  brooks  that  wandered  drow- 
sily 
f  pendent  clusters  of  empurpling  grapes, 
vinging  upon  the  Tine.     And  now,  'tis 

here! 
nd  what  a  change  hath  pass'd  upon  the 

face 
r  Nature,  where  the  waving  forest  spreads, 
ben  robed  in  deepest  green !    All  through 

the  night 
^e  subtle  frost  hath  plied  its  mystic  art ; 
nd  in  the    day  the  golden  sun    hath 

wrought 
rue  wonders ;  and  the  winds  of  mom  and 

even 
ave  touched  with  magic  breath  the  chang- 
ing leaves, 
nd  now,  as  wanders  the  dilating  eye 
cross  the  varied  landscape,  circling  far, 
''hat  gorgeousness,  what  blazonry,  what 

pomp 
r  colors,  bursts  upon  the  ravished  sight ! 
ere,  where  the  maple  rears  its  yellow 

crest, 
golden  glory  ;  yonder  where  the  oak 
Auds  monarch  of  the  forest,  and  the  ash 
girt  with  flame-like  parasite,  and  broad 
he  dogwood  spreads   beneath,  a  rolling 

flood 
f  deepest  crimson  ;  and  afar  where  looms 

be  gnarl^  gum,  a  cloud  of  bloodiest  red ! 

•  «  •  «  « 

High  o'erhead, 
jeking  the  sedgy  brinks  of  still  lagoons 
lat  bask  in  Southern  suns  the  winter  thro', 


•from  ** Miami  WoodB. 


>» 


Sails  tireless  the  unerring  water-fowl, 
Screaming  among  the  cloud-racks.     Ofl 

from  where, 
In  bushy  covert  hid,  the  partridge  stands. 
Bursts  suddenly   the   whistle,  clear    and 

loud. 
Far  echoing  through  the  dim  wood's  fret- 
ted aisles. 
Deep  murmurs  from  the  trees,  bending 

with  brown 
And  ripened  mast,  are  intermpted  now 
By  sounds  of  dropping  nuts ;  and  warily 
The  turkey  from  the  thicket  comes,  and 

swift 
As    flies    an    arrow  darts   the  pheasant 

down. 
To  batten  on  the  autumn ;  and  the  air. 
At  times,  is  darkened  by  a  sudden  rush 
Of  myriad  wings,  as  the  wild-pigeon  leads 
His  squadrons  to  the  banquet.     Far  away, 
Where  the  pawpaw  its  mellow   fruitage 

yields, 
And  thick,  dark  clusters  of  the  wild  grape 

hang. 
The   merry  laugh  of  childhood,  and  the 

shout 
Of  truant  school-boy,  ring  upon  the  air. 

End  of  the  vernal  year! — ^The  flower 
hath  closed 
And  cast  its  petals,  and  the  naked  stalk 
Stands  shriveling  in  the  frost ;  the  feath- 
ered grass 
Is  heavy  in  the  head ;  the  painted  leaf 
Flies  twittering  on  the  wind ;  and  to  the 

earth 
Falls    the    brown   nut,  with  melancholy 
sound. 

Yet  the  low,  moaning  autumn  wind,  that 
sweeps 

The   seeded   grass  and  lately-blossoming 

flower, 
Bears  the  light  germs  of  future  life  away. 
And  sows  them  by  the  gliding  rivulet, 
And  o*er  the  plain,  and  on  the  mountain 

side. 


T     :.'.     iX    D.   GALLAGHER. 


[IOIMIl 


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V  •%  >u>uiiij>  their  \oi\y 


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...    .  ,..,^>,'i*K-    iWAiduHJilV  hi!*ty 
..     •.,■....  •   *^!  the  \var — and 


AUGUST. 

Di'ST  on  thy  mantle !  diitt. 
Bright  Suminrr,  on  thy  liToiy  of  green ! 
A  tarnish,  ilh  of  rust, 
Dim.s  thy  kte-brilliant  ihceo: 
And  thy  youn^  gIorie:» — leM£,  and  biMLaiid 

Hower — 
Chanj^e  cumeih  over  themi%ith  ereiy  liour. 

Tliee  hath  the  Auguitt  sun 
Lookeil  on  with  hot,  and  tierce,  and  brasfv 

And  >till  and  lazily  run, 
Searee  wlii^|H.*riiig  in  tlieir  pace, 
Tli«'  halt'-<lrird  rivulets,  tliat  lately  sent 
A  bhout  of  gladness  up,  ad  un  thry  went 

Flanu*-like,  the  long  mid-day — 
With  not  so  niueli  of  awect  air  as  halli 
^ti^r^l 
Tlif  down  II I  ion  the  f^pray, 
AVIien'  ri'sts  the  juuiting  bird, 
Doziii;;  away  tlie  hot  and  t<-dioU!9  noon, 
With  tit  till  twitter,  s:idly  out  of  tune. 


I  ■ • .4  • 


%x.\  t\M>vlo*es  all. 


S-«h1s  in  the  >ultrv  air. 
And  gu^*«ain(T  weh-work  on  the  sleeping 

K*eii  tilt*  tall  pines,  that  rear 
Tlicir  phnnrs  to  cateh  the  bnt'ie, 
Th«*  >li«:litr^t   hn*eze  from  the  uufrepben* 

,  .»  .  ^  *»  ov  :4notht  r  Spnii'T,  _,       ,       .  ,  ,  ,  , 

,  1.1  t  anaK<'  till*  'Miienu  uin'iuor,  and  deep 

„      „.s.*    .^:u^her     j;arlan«l  *"  '^  • 

Il.'ippy,  a-i  man  may  be, 
» '*"  •>^"«-  »^*»'*»-»^*»**'^'*'**  Stn«trlMl  on  lii>lNiik,  in  iKTOely 

ImiWiT, 

Wliilf  tli<'  vulnptn<Ki<  lN*e 
H<)h<>  f-a<'h  surrounding  flower. 
And  pnittliiii;  rliildluMiil  clambers  oVr  hii 

hnn*!. 


XS'      ^ 


iS    N\iiit\,  and  not 


V     iiN-A  Vnvv  me  now,  1  nwl 


,         .,..«  >*  »»t  dt-aili  may  iM>ld/j'|j^,  |j,j,j,.„„j„,jj„  ,.,  •  ,yjj  i^jjj  noomlav 

,;i«H-ier    them,    and;  A^mimm  fl».- li:i/y  >ky 

TIh*  thin  :i!i«l  tli-i'i-y  rlouils  unmovmg, 
^  M^Mtrtlitv.  Ih-nt-ath  ihiin  t:ir,  yet  high 


KMMO.] 


WILLIAM    D.   GALLAGHER. 


139 


In  the  dim,  di9tant  west, 
lie  vulture,  scenting  thence  its  carrion- 

iailSy  slowly  circling  through  the  sunny  air. 

Soberly,  in  the  shade, 
tepose  the  patient  cow,  and  toil-worn  ox ; 
Or  in  the  shoal  stream  wade. 
Sheltered  by  jutting  rocks : 
lie  fleecy  flock,  fly-scourg*d  and  restless, 

rush 
[udly  from  fence  to  fence,  from  bush  to 
bush. 

Tediously  pass  the  hours, 
Jid  vegetation  wilts,  M'ith  blistered  root — 
And  droop  the  thirsting  flow'rs, 
Where  the  slant  sunbeams  shoot : 
^t  of  each  tall  old  tree,  the  lengthening 

line, 
low-creeping  eastward,  marks  the  day's 
decline. 

Faster,  along  the  plain, 
[oves  now  the  shade,  and  on  the  meadow's 
edge: 
The  kine  are  forth  again, 
Birds  flitter  in  the  hedge. 
'ow  in  the  molten  west  sinks  the  hot  sun. 
i^elcome,  mild  eve ! — the  sultry  day  is 
done. 

Pleasantly  comest  thou, 
tew  of  the  evening,  to  the  crisp'd-up  grass ; 

And  the  curl'd  corn-blades  bow, 

As  the  light  breezes  pass, 
hat  their  parch'd  lips  may  feel  thee,  and 

expand, 
'hou  sweet  reviver  of  the  fevered  land. 

So,  to  the  thirsting  soul, 
bmeth  the  dew  of  the  Almighty's  love ; 

And  the  scathed  heart,  made  whole, 

Tumeth  in  joy  al)ove, 
'o  where  the  spirit  freely  may  expand, 
Lnd  rove,  untrammel'd,  in  that   "better 
land-" 


MAY. 

Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye, 

Merry,  ever-merry  May  I 

Made  of  sun-gleams,  shade  and  showers, 

Bursting  buds,  and  breathing  flowers ; 

Dripping-lock'd,  and  rosy-vested, 

Violet-slippered,  rainbow-crested ; 

Girdled  with  the  eglantine, 

Festoon'd  with  the  dewy  vine : 

Merry,  ever-merry  May, 

Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye  I 

Out  beneath  thy  morning  sky  I 

Dian's  bow  still  hangs  on  high  ; 

And  in  the  blue  depths  afar, 

Glimmers,  here  and  there,  a  solitary  star. 

Diamonds  robe  the  bending  grass, 

Glistening  earl^  flowers  among — 
Monad's  world,  and  fairy's  glass. 
Bathing  fount  for  wandering  sprite — 

By  mysterious  fingers  hung. 
In  the  lone  and  quiet  night 
Now  the  freshening  breezes  pass — 
Gathering,  as  they  steal  along. 
Rich  perfume,  and  matin  song— 
And  quickly  to  destruction  hurl'd 
Is  fairy's  diamond  glass,  and  monad's  dew- 
drop  world. 
Lo  I  yon  cloud,  which  hung  but  now 
Black  upon  the  mountain's  brow, 
Threatening  the  green  earth  with  storms- 
See  I  it  heaves  its  giant  form. 
And,  ever  changing  shape  and  hue. 
But  still  presenting  something  new, 
Moves  slowly  up,  and  spreading  rolls  away 
Toward  the  rich  purple  streaks  that  usher 

in  the  day ; 
Bright* ning,  as  it  onward  goes, 
Until  its  very  center  glows 
With  the  warm,  cheering  light,  the  coming 

sun  bestows : 
As  the  passing  Christian's  soul, 
Nearing  the  celestial  goal. 
Bright  and   brighter  grows,  tiU   God  il- 
lumes the  Whole. 


140 


WILLIAM   D.   GALLAGHER. 


[U» 


Out  U'neath  tlij  noontide  skj ! 
On  u  shudy  jtloin;  I  Ik*, 

Giving  fancy  ample  piny : 
And  tlicreV  not  more  blest  tlian  I, 

One  of  Adam's  rare  to-<iay. 

Out  beneath  thy  noontide  sky  ! 

Earth,  1k>w  beautiful ! — how  clear 

Of  cloud  or  mist  the  atmosphere  I 

What  a  glory  greets*  the  eye ! 

Wliat  a  calm,  or  quiet  stir, 

Steals  o'er  Nature's  worshiper — 

Silent,  yet  so  elo(|uent. 

That  we  feel  'tis  heaven-sent — 

Waking  thoughts  that  long  liave  slumber'd 

Passion-dimm'd  and  earth-eucumber'd^ 

Bearing  soul  and  sense  away, 

To  revel  in  the  Perfect  Day 

That  'waits  us,  when  we  sliall  for  aye 

Discard  this  darksf>me  du:?t — this  prison- 
house  of  clay ! 

Out  beneath  thy  evening  sky  I 
Not  a  breeze  tliat  wanders  by 
But  hath  swept  the  green  earth's  bosom — 
Rifling  the  rich  grape-vine  blossom, 
Dallying  with  the  simplest  flower 
In  mossy  nook  and  rosy  Iwwer — 
To  the  perfum'd  green-house  straying, 
And  with  rich  exotics  jdaying — 
Then,  unsat(*d,  sweeping  over 
Banks  of  thyme,  and  ti<'l4Ls  of  clover! 
Out  beneath  thy  evening  sky  I 
( I  roups  of  children  ca|>er  by, 
C'rown'd  with  flowers,  and  rush  along 
With  joyous  hiugh,  an<l  shout,  and  song. 
Flashing  eye,  and  radiant  cheek. 
Spirits  all  unsunnM  lM*s{H^ak. 
They  are  in  Life's  May-month  hours^ 
And  tho'io  wild   bursts  of  joy,  what  are 
they  but  Life's  flowers  ? 

Would  that  thou  couLKt  \iv^i  for  aye, 
Mf'rrv,  ever-m«*rrv  Mav  I 
Miuh*  of  hun-^leaiii-t,  slijid*'  ami  showers. 
Burning  buds,  and  breathing  tlowt-rs  ; 
Drippinf!-hH'k*d,  and  ro>y-ve.'»tiMl, 
Violet-slip|KTe<l,  rain1>ow-crested ; 


Ginlled  with  tlie  eglantine, 
Festoon'd  with  the  dewy  vine : 
Merry,  ever-m*»rry  May, 
Wouki  that  thou  couldat  lait  for  aye ! 


THE  MOTHERS  OF  THE  WEST. 

The  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Luid! 

Stout-hearted  dames  were  they  ; 
With  nerve  to  wield  the  battle-bnuk 

And  join  the  border^fray. 
Our  rough  land  had  no  bniTer, 

In  its  days  of  blood  and  strife^ 
Aye  ready  for  severest  toil, 

Aye  free  to  peril  life. 

The  mothers  of  our  Forest-Land  1 

On  old  Kan-tuc-kee'fl  soil, 
How  shared  they,  with  each  daunt 
bmid, 

Wiu-'s  tempest  and  Life's  toil ! 
They  shrank  not  trom  the  foeman-^ 

They  quailetl  not  in  the  fight — 
But  cheered  their  husbands  thixnigfa 
day, 

And  soothed  them  throagh  the  ni; 

Tlie  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land ! 

Their  bosoms  pillowed  men/ 
Ami  proud  were  they  by  such  to  sta 

Tn  hainm(M*k,  fort,  or  glen. 
To  lodul  the  sun'  old  rifle- 
To  run  the  leaden  ball- 
To  wati'h  a  battling  husband's  place, 
And  All  it  >liould  he  fall. 

Thi»  Moihi-rs  of  our  Forest-Land! 

Sitrh  were  their  daily  deeds. 
Tlu'ir  monuuK'nt ! — where  does  it  stai 

Tlu-ir  epitaph ! — who  reads  ? 
No  bniviT  dames  lind  S|)arta, 

No  nobh'r  matrons  Rfimi^^ 
Yet  who  or  lauds  or  iKmoni  them, 

K*en  in  their  own  green  home  I 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM   D.   GALLAGHER. 


141 


The  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land  I 

Thej  sleep  in  unknown  graves : 
And  had  they  borne  and  nursed  a  band 

Of  ingrates,  or  of  slaves. 
They  had  not  been  more  neglected ! 

But  their  graves  shall  yet  be  found, 
And  their  monuments  dot  here  and  there 

"  The  Dai-k  and  Bloody  Ground." 


SONG  OF  THE  PIONEERa 

A  SONG  for  the  early  times  out  West, 

And  our  green  old  forest  home, 
Whose  pleasant  memories  freshly  yet 

Across  the  bosom  come : 
A  song  for  the  free  and  gladsome  life, 

In  those  early  days  we  led. 
With  a  teeming  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  a  smiling  Heav'n  overhead ! 
Oh,  the  waves  of  life  danced  merrily, 

And  had  a  joyous  flow, 
Li  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

The  hunt,  the  shot,  the  glorious  chase. 

The  captur'd  elk,  or  deer ; 
The  camp,  the  big,  bright  fire,  and  then 

The  rich  and  wholesome  cheer : — 
The  sweet,  sound  sleep,  at  dead  of  night. 

By  our  camp-fire,  blazing  high — 
Unbroken  by  the  wolf's  long  howl. 

And  the  panther  springing  by. 
Oh,  merrily  pass*d  the  time,  despite 

Our  wily  Indian  foe, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  i^o ! 

We  shunn'd  not  labor  :  when  'twas  due 
We  wrought  with  right  good  will ; 

And  for  the  homes  we  won  for  them. 
Our  children  bless  us  still. 

We  lived  not  hermit  lives,  but  ofl 
In  social  converse  met ; 


And  fires  of  love  were  kindled  then, 

That  bum  on  warmly  yet. 
Oh,  pleasantly  the  stream  of  life 

Pursued  its  constant  flow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifly  years  ago ! 

We  felt  that  we  were  fellow-men ; 

We  felt  we  were  a  band, 
Sustain'd  here  in  the  wilderness 

By  Heaven's  upholding  hand. 
And  when  the  solemn  Sabbath  came. 

We  gathered  in  the  wood. 
And  lifted  up  our  hearts  in  prayer 

To  Grod,  the  only  Good. 
Our  temples  then  were  earth  and  sky ; 

None  others  did  we  know, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifly  years  ago  I 

Our  forest  life  was  rough  and  rude. 

And  dangers  clos'd  us  round ; 
But  here,  amid  the  green  old  trees. 

Freedom  was  sought  and  found. 
Oft  through  our  dwellings  wint'ry  blasts 

Would  rush  with  shriek  and  moan ; 
We  cared  not — though  they  were  but  frail. 

We  felt  they  were  our  own  1 
Oh,  free  and  manly  lives  we  led, 

Mid  verdure,  or  mid  snow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifly  years  ago  I 

But  now  our  course  of  life  is  short ; 

And  as,  from  day  to  day. 
We're  walking  on  with  halting  step. 

And  fainting  by  the  way, 
Another  Land  more  bright  tlian  this. 

To  our  dim  sight  appears. 
And  on  our  way  to  it  we'll  soon 

Again  be  pioneers ! 
Yet  while  we  linger,  we  may  all 

A  backward  glance  still  throw. 
To  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifly  years  ago  1 


142 


WILLIAM    I).   OALLAGMEK. 


[lOMlL 


TUl'TH  AM)  FKKKIM)M. 

Os  the  i>a^*  tliat  Is  Imniort4il, 
\Vf*  th«»  brilliant  proinis*'  w'o : 

•*  Y«*  hhall  know  the  Truth,  my  |)eople. 
And  its  niiglit  r*huli  mukt;  you  frve!" 

For  tilt*  Truth,  th«*n,  let  ut^  liattle, 

Wlijits<M*ver  fiiti*  U'tidel 
lAni]:  the  bcwtst  that  we  iin»  Freemen, 

Wt*  have  made,  and  putilished  wide. 

II<'  wlio  hsL*  the  Truth,  and  k(*epA  it, 
Krepj)  what  not  to  him  lNdon<r< ; 

Hut  pcrtbnns  a  84dHsh  action, 
TiuU  his  fellow  mortal  wrongA. 

He  who  Keekft  the  Truth,  and  trembled 
At  the  djui^i^TK  he  mu>t  brave, 

Is  not  fit  to  I H*  a  FnM'man : 
He,  at  best,  u  but  a  !<lave. 

lie  who  hears  the  Truth,  and  phioea 
Its  hi^h  proniptingit  und«*r  bun. 

Loud  mav  Uiast  of  uU  tliat*s  manly, 
Hut  can  never  be  a  Man 

Friend,  tliii*  simple  lay  who  reailest, 
Hf  nut  thou  like  either  them. — 

Hut  tn  Tnitli  jrive  utmost  trt.*e(iom, 
And  the  tide  it  raises,  stenL 

H«»)d  in  >|Nreh,  and  t)«dd  in  motion, 
Hf  tnrvvi*r  I — Timr  will  ti-st, 

or  thi'  tn*e-soulf«l  and  tin*  slavish, 
Wliii-h  t'ultills  Iitr*s  mission  Inst. 

Im*  till  111  liL<*  ill*'  nnbl«'  Aiicii'nt — 
S-nni  tlif  thnat  that  bid^  tln'o  tt*ar; 

Sj  •  ik  ! — no  niatii-r  what  U'tiih'  tln'i' ; 
1.-  :  :!i>  :u  >(riki .  Iml  ni.ik*-  ilp-ni  luiu! 

i;.'-!   .1  I:k«-  ilif  lir-I  AjMi-il" 

I'h    :1miii  likf  lii-riiit'  Paul : 
It"  ;i  !!■•■  lii't'i^'h;  -» ik  r\|in*-i<»n, 

S{>4':ik  it  ImiMIv  !  >)H'ak  it  all! 


Faec  thine  enemies — nrrusen ; 

Seom  the  pris^m,  niek,  or  rod ! 
And,  if  tiKHi  hast  Truth  to  utter, 

S]M*ak !  and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 


TIIK  LABOKER. 

Stand  up— erect  I    Thou  ha«t  the  fem. 

And  likeness  of  thv  (lod  ! — who  more? 
A  soul  as  daunt IcM  mid  the  storm 
Of  dailv  lif<',  a  heart  as  warm 

And  pure,  as  l>niast  e'er  bore. 

What  then  ? — ^Thou  art  as  true  a  Maa 
As  moves  the  hunuin  mass  among; 
As  murh  a  |>urt  of  the  Great  Phm 
That  with  en*ation*s  dawn  began, 
As  any  of  the  throng. 

Who  is  thine  enemy  ? — the  high 

In  station,  or  in  wealth  the  chief? 
Th«*  pivat,  who  coldly  pass  thee  by, 
With  proud  step  and  averted  eye? 
S'dy  I  nurse  not  such  belieil 

If  true  unto  thyself  thou  wast. 
What   w<'re  the   pit>ud  one's 
thi-e  f 

A  feather,  whieh  thoo  mightest 

A>iilf,  fk:s  idlv  as  the  blast 
The  li^dit  leaf  from  the  tree. 


No  : — uneurbM  pa<«sioa4 — ^kwr 

Ab-**!!!'''  of  noblf*  svlf-r»*spe<i— 
I>«'alh.  in  (h«*  bn*:L«t*s  consuming  fires. 
Tit  ih:it  lki;:li  iiatiiP'  ^hieh  a-^pires 
rori-\tT.  till  thus  choek'd : 

rht-f  an-  iliiiH'  fut-mifs — ihy  wont: 
Til-  V  ili:iiii  tli"i*  to  thv  lowlv  lot-o 

Tliv  latH»r  and  ihv  lite  aei'urst. 

( >h.  "Taiid  •Ti-i't !  and  from  them  burst! 
And  li>ntr<'r  suffer  not ! 


18S(M0.] 


WILLIAM   D.GALLAGHER. 


lis 


Tliou  art  thyself  thine  enemj  I 

The  great ! — what  better  thej  than  thou  ? 
A8  theirs,  is  not  thj  will  as  firee  ? 
Has  God  with  equal  favors  thee 

Neglected  to  endow  ? 

True,  wealth  thou  hast  not :  'tis  but  dust ! 

Nor  place  ;  uncertain  as  the  wind  I 
But  that  thou  hast,  which,  with  thy  crust 
And  water  may  despise  the  lust 

Of  both — a  noble  mind. 

With  this,  and  passions  under  ban, 
Trae  faith,  and  holj  trust  in  Grod, 

Thou  art  the  peer  of  an j  man. 

Look  up,  then — ^that  thj  little  span 
Of  life  may  be  well  trod  I 


THE  LAND  OF  LIFE. 

I  WANDER  ever  in  a  land  of  dreams, 
Wliere  flowers  perpetual  bloom  about 
my  way. 
And  where  faint  murmurs  of  meandering 
streams 
Open  and  close  the  glory  of  each  day : — 
Cool,  spicy  airs  upon  my  temples  play  ; 
Wild,  ravishing  songs  of  birds  enchant  my 
ears; 
Odors  and  exhalations,  where  I  stray, 
Sweeten  and  beautify  the  lapsing  years  ; 
And  through  whatever  is,  what  is  to  be  ap- 
pears. 

Some  dcQxn  this  land  of  dreams  the  Land 

of  Life, — 
And,  moved   by  high  ambitions,  build 

them  here 
Mansions  of  pride,  that  fill  erewhile  with 

strife, 


And  palaces  of  hope,  that  disappear 
Ere  well  completed ;  still,  through.many 
a  year. 
Vain  repetitions  of  this  toil  and  sweat 

Go  on,  until  the  heart  is  lone  and  sere. 
And  weary,  and  oppressed ;  and  even  yet 
Men  plod  and  plant,  and  reap  earth's  fever 
and  its  fret. 

And  others  deem  this  land  the  land  of 
woe, — 
And  fill  it  with  vague  shapes,  chimeras 
dire. 
Sights,  sounds,  portents,  that  hither  come 
and  go, 
Melting  midst  ice,  and  freeidng  amid 

fire — 
Each  feeling  its  own  hate,  and  cither's 
ire — 
Seething  and  bubbling  like  a  storm-tossed 
sea — 
With  wailings  ever  bom,  that  ne'er  ex- 
pire— 
Primeval  ills,  from  which  in  vain  they 

flee- 
All  horrors  man  can  taste,  or  touch,  or 
hear,  or  see. 

But,  ne'ertheless,  this  is  the  land  of  dreams : 
Unto  the  Land  of  Life,  through  this  we 

From  out  the  land  of  darkness,  wherefrom 

streams 
No  ray,  that  thence  we  might  its  secret 

know: 
Unto  the  Land  of  Life,  through  this  we 

go- 
Through  this,  the  land   of  dreams ;    and 

dimly  here 

Perceive,  while  wandering  trustful  to 

and  fro, 

Things  that  in  full-robed  glory  there  ap- 
pear. 

Around  the  Eternal  One,  throughout  the 
Eternal  Year. 


144 


WILLIAM    I).    GALLAGUKR. 


[IMMI. 


THE  SPOTTED  FAWN/ 


On  Muhketewa'fl  flowery  marge 

The  Red  Chiefd  wigwum  i«tood, 
AVhen  fir^t  tlie  white  niairs  ritle  rang 

Loud  through  ihe  echoing  wood. 
The  tomahawk  and  Mtilping-knife 

Together  h\y  at  rest ; 
For  \K'&re  vrvu^  in  tlie  forest  sluides, 

And  in  the  red  niunV  brea^^t 
Oh,  tlie  S|Kittcil  Fawn  I 
Oh,  the  SiKJtted  Fawn ! 
The  light  and  lite  of  the  iorv>t  shades 

With  the  Red  Chiefd  cldld  is  gone. 

Bv  MahketewaV  flowerv  marjre 
The  Sjwttecl  Fawn  liad  hirlh, 

And  gn'W,  lui  fair  an  Indian  girl 
A*  »^ver  blepl  the  earth. 

*  The  Spotted  Faidi  «m  wrlttro  In  IMH.  tnr  DufflrlJ. 
•  iRfpiilar  Ti K'n I Ut,  and  wan  tirr^i  !>ui)};  \*y  tiim  m  a  oooifrt 
In  Wa#biiiKtoii  Hall,  on  Third  »tn'«t.  I'lnrinuatl.  U  be-| 
came  luiiuvdiately  a  Krvat  f.iT«>riir.  auil  »k#  puMLMmlJ 
mil)  ihe  niuiiio,  by  IVUrw  ft  IVM.  Kfrrj  l»ody  ^an|C,  n^ 
|irutcd.  or  talkitl  abuut  th«  "  S|K»tt««l  Fawn,"  and  (trtrj 
Um1\  wa»  iihtx'krd,  a«  wpU  an  pniTnii«-d  U*  atUiilntion  !•> 
it»  iiu|irrk>r  BiitiirM  of  rhyihni  and  ailiN-nitliin,  when  the 
fullowlug  parody  appeared  in  tba  Ctmnmmau  Empiirtr: 


She  was  the  Red  ClueTs  onlj  chikl, 

And  imught  by  many  a  brave ; 
But  to  the  gallant  young  White  Cboi 
Her  idightftl  troth  she  gave. 
Oh,  tht.-  SiiotUKl  Fawn ! 
Oh,  the  S])otted  Fawn ! 
The  light  and  life  of  the  forert  shadei 
With  the  Red  Cluefs  cbikl  u 


I 


From  Mahketewa*s  flowery  marge 

Her  bridal  song  aruae 
None  dri'iuninp:,  in  that  festal  night. 

Of  near  eiieircling  foe:) ; 
But  through  the  fore:«t,  stealthily, 

The  white  men  came  in  wrath; 
And  iiery  deaths  before  them  sped. 

And  bI(K>d  wa:t  in  their  path. 
Oh,  the  S|)otted  Fawn ! 
Oh,  the  S|>otted  Fawn ! 


it 


THE  SPOTTED  FROO. 


*'  Ov  niuiMy  Mlll-(*rrek*ti  nrnrvhy  nurse, 
When  nunimrr'n  heat  wan  (ii-lt. 
Full  many  a  burl>  bullfroit  Urica 

Alitl  leniler  tii'lpole  ilwi-lt  I 
Aii>l  thi  n-,  Mt  t.«M.i|.Uy,  Uiittht  lie  w«n, 

VfKin  a  riittril  I«>||* 
Th»-  liu^lfnijt-  bn«»ii.  and  tu'ljiolp*  green. 
And  thefr  till*  >\»»tu  il  Fni|C  ' 
Oh.  the  >|-.tti-l  Vmi' 
lih.  thr  S|».fri.l  Vt^'ii* 
The  littht  and  liN-  >^f  Miii-i'n-ek'M  mud 
Wan  I  lie  loTih  .'^iM-tf.-.i  In-;:  ' 

"  B\  ntniniant  Mill-«'rt-«'k>  niudJy  uari:*. 
Till'  S|H.it«->t  ¥r*K  lia>l  Mrth  : 

Au>l  crew  a*  Mir  anil  tat  a  fn>|[ 
A*  riiT  ht>|i|'i'<l  on  i^rtli 

Slif  wt«  ill*'  tritc-iriitfo  i  til}i  rliiM, 
Atil  >•  li^lil  \'\  Uiiiiy  A  rn>ir . 

Illll   )it  I'U  i'tU    MliitH    >lli'  "lilili-il, 

Irni.  til  It  ill  1  r><;i>  1  j-^. 

0»i.   Ilw  >|-  Itf.l  tV'^'. 

itn.  thf  '•jNiHt  1  Irii^' 
TIm-  hkTiit  nii-l  III'  ••!  Mili-t  ni'li'»  mud 
Wbp  tli«-  |ii\rli   ^ii-lft'd  lp<i(: 


*'  Fr«mi  muddy  MIIM'rwk'a 
Hit  brl'LiI  Minje  arow  ; 
Ni>ne  ilreauitn^.  an  t'ley  hopped  nl 

Uf  niwr  eiirirriiug  ftiea ; 
But  rriirl  Imi,>^.  In  warrh  of  •port, 

To  Mill-i'reek  came  thai  day. 
And  at  tlie  fntp«.  with  ilkka  Bad 
Befnu  to  bUue  away  ! 

Oh.  the  SfMittnl  Frof! 
Oh.  the  Spotted  Frof! 
The  llirht  >nd  iifr  of  Mill-4*Y«cki*i  Hoi 
Wat  the  iorvU  Hprttted  Fl«Jf ! 

"  On  mudd>  MilM*n«k*»  marriiy  bwsv^ 
Ne&t  ui"m,  no  fnigii  wetv  §9m  ; 
But  a  murtaJ  pile  of  ptirk*  and  * 
Told  wlM'fF  the  fny  had  b«*n  I 
Anil  time  n>lled  on,  and  0(b«r 
AfHtrnMeit  piubd  that  Uf; 
But  mvrr  MilM'reek'*  mmnhm mm 
Aipiln  that  >|i(>ttrd  Fmff  I 
nil.  till-  ."iM-Kt^l  Frnf! 
Oil.  the  .<|>iitte.l  Fniff! 
Tlie  Wiht  and  lift-  of  MUM'Rck't  moi 
Wan  the  ioTfi,\   ^liotlrd  FfOff  ?  "* 

The  (mint  <f  the  jtan^ly  1«  in  the  lad  that  -* 
(a  pni.ili  •tn-iiii  »l>ifh  miiittrp  into  the  Ohio 
h«  |fi*  riiii  iiiitiiti   i*  thr  i-ouiDioD  name  for  Mah 
:i  ■inpsini  hiirhl\  ill<riiii:ui>heil  In  Ihe  meaiofy  of  all 
rlnn«ti  l»vr  f>r  "  oi-'tu-il  fn-ir*."     The  pmtoAj  ■■•  | 
ll->ie>l    in   nil   till-   |>i|-«r«.  an  1   )>rranie   Ihe  ri0>. 
aiiMi<ir-hi|>  ••r  II  i.-  %•'*  unknown.     It  waa  aarifliii  H 
N'rra  >.   .Ni«  lii<i-.  iii'wi'.  .1    «  i-t.  John  P.  Jetika.  i 
K.   I.<>r*n.  ^^'    11    \.\iU:  Hi-1  •'iher».     Plicoa4ea  !■ 
new«|M|iri>  al« lilt  till*  an ilior^h),  of  the   'l^pntiad 
liavt^Tiwtu.irt  1  ttii-iiiiire>ift>rlhe"I*potl«d  FawB* 
Mr.  IiuAelir-  -uiM-n-T  lucril  a«  a  TocmU«t  tiM 
ftir  It. 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM   D.   GALLAGHER. 


145 


The  light  and  life  of  the  forest  shades 
With  the  Bed  Chiers  child  is  gone. 

On  Mahketewa's  flowery  marge, 

Next  mom,  no  strife  was  seen  ; 

But  a  wail  went  up,  M-here  the  young 
Fawn's  blood 

And  White  Cloud's  dyed  the  green ; 

And  burial,  in  their  own  rude  way. 

The  Indians  gave  them  there. 

While  a  low  and  sweet-ton'd  requiem 

The  brook  sang  and  the  air. 

Oh,  the  Spotted  Fawn! 

Oh,  the  Spotted  Fawn ! 

The  light  and  life  of  the  forest  shades 

With  the  Red  Chief's  child  is  gone. 


THE  ARTISAN. 

The  day  is  past; — the  quiet  night 

Toward  its  midhour  weareth  on; 
His  workshop  has  been  closed  for  hours — 

A  good  day's  labor  done. 
The  toil  is  hard  that  brings  him  bread ; 

And  sometimes  he  hath  scant  supply ; 
When  droops  awhile  his  manly  head. 

And  glistens  his  full  eye. 

Yet  from  the  trial  shrinks  he  not ; 

For  he  has  youth,  and  strength,  and 
will; 
And  though  his  toil  is  ill  repaid, 

Bends  daily  to  it  stiU. 
He  sometimes  murmurs, — but  his  pride 

Checks  each  expression  at  its  birth, — 
That  blessings  to  his  class  denied 

Surround  the  drones  of  earth. 

He  passes,  mom  and  noon  and  night, 

The  homes  of  luxury  and  wealth ; 
And  glances  at  their  gilded  ease. 

His  eye  will  take  by  stealth. 
And  shadows  gather  on  his  face. 

At  times — but  instantly  depart — 
He  feels  such  weakness  a  disgrace 

Both  to  his  head  and  heart. 


His  calling  sometimes  takes  him  where 

Wealth,   worth,    grace,   beauty,    all 
unite ; 
And  lovely  tones  aiTest  his  car, 

And  lovely  looks  his  sight ; 
And  much  he  thinks — and  half  he  sighs — 

Yet  ere  his  welcome  work  is  done, 
He  longs  for  home,  and  Mary's  eyes, 

And  for  his  prattling  son. 

His  labor  hath  been  light  to-day ; 

And  wife  and  child  before  him  sleep ; 
And  he  has  pass'd  the  half-spent  night 

In  study  close  and  deep. 
The  lamp  bums  dim — the  fire  is  low — 

The  book  is  closed  wherein  he  read; 
But  wildly  swells  the  streams  of  thought 

Its  fountain-pages  fed. 

With  eyes  fixed  calmly  on  the  floor, 

But  varying  and  expressive  face. 
He  cons  the  lesson  o'er  and  o'er — 

The  history  of  his  race. 
And  much  he  finds  of  word  and  deed, 

Whose  virtue  is  example  now ; 
But  more  that  makes  his  bosom  bleed, 

And  darkens  o'er  his  brow. 

The   thirst  for  wealth — the  strife  for 
power — 

The  ceaseless  struggle  for  renown — 
The  daring  that  hath  seized  a  realm. 

Or  caught  a  wavering  crown — 
The  manhood  that  hath  tamely  bent 

And  fall'n  beneath  tyrannic  sway — 
The  balk'd  resistance,  that  hath  lent 

Its  darkness  to  the  day. 

But  chiefly  this  it  is  that  fills 

The  swelling  volume  of  his  mind : 
The  countless  ^vrongs  and  craelties 

That  have  oppress'd  his  kind. 
And  viewing  them,  upon  his  brain 

His  own  hard  struggles  darkly  throng ; 
And  as  he  feels  their  weight  again, 

It  presses  like  a  wrong : 


10 


146 


WILLIAM    L).    GALLAGHKR. 


[iBaM 


Wrong  to  himself,  oiid  wrung  to  all 

Who  l>eur  the  burthens  he  hatli  borne : 
**A  yoke  !**  up  starting  he  cxi'lniius, 

"And  oh,  how  meekly  worn  T 
But  as  he  reads  Life's  riddle  still, 

lie  feels,  with  sudden  change  of  mood, 
The  stem,  the  indomitable  will, 

That  never  was  subdued. 

The  will,  not  to  destroy,  but  build ! 

Not  the  blind  Might  of  old  renown, 
Whicli  took  the  pillars  in  its  gras|), 

And  shook  the  temple  down — 
But  that  whose  patient  energy 

Works  ever  upwanl,  without  rest, 
Until  the  pierced  and  parted  sea 

Rolls  from  its  coral  brea^^t. 

In  the  dim  fire-light  for  awhile, 

II is  tall  form  moveth  to  and  fro  ; 
Then  by  the  couch  of  those  he  loves, 

He  stops,  and  b<'ndeth  low. 
Oh,  holy  love !  oli,  blessed  kiss ! 

Ye  ask  not  splendor — bide  notpow'r^ 
But  in  a  humble  home  like  this, 

Ye  have  your  triumph  hour ! 

He  sleeps — but  even  on  his  dreams 

Obtrudes  the  pur])ose  of  his  soul ; 
He  wanders  where  the  living  streams 

Of  knowledge  brightly  roll ; 
And  where  men  win  their  own  good  ways. 

Not  yield  to  doubt  or  dark  despiur. 
In  dreams  his  Itounding  spirit  strays — 

In  dn^ams  he  triumphs  there. 

With  stronger  arm,  with  mightier  heart, 

Tlian  he  hath  felt  or  known  liefore. 
When  comes  the  mornm-'s  hour  of  toil. 

He'll  leave  hi^^  humlde  dixir. 
No  wavering  hi»n<v  h«*Ml  know — no  n»st 

I'nlil  the  new-*<»«*n  gtwd  l>e  won; 
But  linn,  and  «drn,  and  self-iH>>sessM, 

Wi'iiT  rcsoluti'ly  on. 

And  tiii-i  it  is  that,  year  by  year, 

Thn>ngh  which  nor   faith  nor  hope 
grows  less, 


Pursued  sliall  crown  his  high 

With  honor  and  success. 
This — this  it  is  tliat  markt  Ik  tmam! 

Dare  thou,  tb^^ii,  *neath  whoie  tUMfin 
eye 
This  lesson  lies,  rouse  up  at  ooee. 

And  on  thyself  rely ! 

Give  to  thy  free  soul  (retU  thoaght ; 

And  whatsoe'er  it  prompts  thee  do^ 
That  manfully,  year  in,  ye«r  oai. 

With  all  thy  might  punue. 
What  tliough  thy  name  may  not  be  hen 

Afar,  or  shouted  through  the  lows, 
Thou'lt  win  a  higher  meed  of  |»miM^ 

A  worthier  renown. 


Press  on,  then  !•— earth  has  need  of  thei 

The  metal  at  the  forge  is  red ; 
The  ax  is  rusting  by  the  tree ; 

The  grain  hangs  heavy  in  the  heai 
He(*d  not  who  works  not— loftsr  Aem! 

Lay   bravely   hold,  nor    pause,  k 
shrink ! 
Life's  Rubicon  is  here^-and  stand 

Not  dubious  on  the  brink  I 


CONSERVATISM. 

The  Owl,  he  fhreth  weU 
In  the  sliadows  of  the  ni^it ; 

And  it  puzzli*s  him  to  tell 
Why  the  Eagle  tovea  the  tight 

AMay  he  floats — away. 

From  the  fon*st  dim  and  old. 

WlnTi'  111?  pas>M  the  gairish  day:^ 
The  Night  doth  make  him  bold! 

The  wave  of  his  downy  wing, 
A<  111'  (*(iur<t'4  around  about, 

Disturbs  nn  slreping  thing 
That  he  flindeth  in  his  rooleu 


3(M0.] 


WILLIAM    D.   GALLAGHER. 


147 


The  moon  looks  o'er  the  hill, 
And  the  vale  grows  soflly  light ; 

And  the  cock,  with  greeting  shrill, 
Wakes  the  echoes  of  the  night. 

Bat  the  moon — ^he  knoweth  well 

ItB  old  familiar  &ce; 
And  the  cock — ^it  doth  but  tell, 

Poor  fool!  its  resting-place. 

And  as  still  as  the  spirit  of  Death 
On  the  air  his  pinions  plaj; 

There's  not  the  noise  of  a  breath, 
As  he  grapples  with  his  prej. 

Oh,  the  shadowj  night  for  him  I 
It  bringeth  him  fare  and  glee ; 

And  what  cares  he  how  dim 
For  the  eagle  it  may  be  ? 

It  clothes  him  from  the  cold. 

It  keeps  his  larders  full. 
And  he  loves  the  darkness  old, 

To  the  eagle  all  so  dulL 

But  the  dawn  is  in  the  east — 
And  the  shadows  disappear ; 

And  at  once  his  timid  breast 
Feels  the  presence  of  a  fear. 

He  resists ; — but  all  in  vain  I 
The  clear  Light  is  not  fir  him ; 

So  he  hastens  back  again 
To  the  forest  old  and  dim. 

Through  his  head  strange  fancies  run ; 

For  he  cannot  comprehend 
"Why  the  moon,  and  then  the  sun. 

Up  the  heavens  should  ascend, — 

When  the  old  and  quiet  Night, 
With  its  shadows  dark  and  deep, 

And  the  half-revealing  light 
Of  its  stars,  he'd  ever  keep. 

And  he  hooteth  loud  and  long: — 
But  the  eagle  greets  the  Day, 

And  on  pinions  bold  and  strong. 
Like  a  roused  thought,  sweeps  away ! 


RADICALOS. 

In  the  far  and  fading  ages 

Of  the  younger  days  of  earth, 
When  man's  aspirations  quicken'd. 

And  his  passions  had  their  birth — 
When  first  paled  his  glorious  beauty. 

And  his  heart  first  knew  unrest, 
As  he  yielded  to  the  tempter 

That  inflamed  and  fiU'd  his  breast — 
When  the  Voice  that  was  in  Eden 

Echoed  through  his  startled  soul, 
And  he  heard  rebuking  anthems 

Through  the  heavenly  arches  roll — 
When  he  fell  from  the  high  promise 

Of  his  being's  blessed  mom, 
To  a  night  of  doubt  and  struggle — 

Badicdlos  then  was  bom. 

Through  the  ages  long  and  dreary 

That  since  then  have  dawn'd  on  earth, 
Man  has  had  but  feeble  glimpses 

Of  the  glory  of  his  birth: 
Catching  these,  his  soul,  aspiring 

To  its  morning  light  again. 
Hard  has  upward  toil'd,  and  often 

Fill'd  with  hope,  but  still  in  vain. 
Many  a  blessed  song  comes  stealing 

Downward  from  the  Eden  aisles. 
Whence  the  light  of  heavenliest  beauty 

Still  upon  the  banish'd  smiles ; 
But  the  harmonies  are  broken 

Of  each  sounding  choral  hymn, 
And  the  gloom  that  vails  his  spirit 

Makes  e'en  heavenly  splendor  dim. 

Faint  revealings,  thwarted  hopings, 

Wearying  struggles,  day  by  day: — 
So  the  long  and  dreary  ages 

Of  his  life  have  worn  away. 
War,  and  rapine,  and  oppression, 

Early  in  his  course  he  found — 
Brother  against  brother  striving — 

By  the  few  the  many  bound. 
And  in  patience,  and  in  meekness. 

To  the  galling  chain  resign'd. 


148 


WILLIAM    I>.    GALLAGHER. 


[IfOMi 


Thus  the  fetten-d  limbs  have  rested — 
Tims  huth  slept  the  dark<'n<Hi  niimi. 

lUit  it  wakens  now  I — it  Hashes 
Like  the  li^^htnin^  ere  the  rain ; 

And  those   limbs  grow  strong  I — when 
n»a«lv, 

Tliey  am  rend  the  mightiest  chain. 

Thn»ii^h  the  slow  and  stately  marches 

Of  the  C4*nturies  subhnie, 
Uadiculos  hath  been  stn/n/^thening 

For  the  noblest  work  of  Time, 
And  he  comes  upon  the  Pn*sent 

I^ike  a  god  in  l<N)k  and  mien. 
With  i*onl|Hl^^l*(•  high  >ur^'t'ying 

All  the  tumult  of  the  scene: 
Wh«'nr  tjlM'v  th»'  fetten*d  millions; 

Wiicre  conimand  ihi-  f<*ttiTing  few; 
Wlu*n*  th«»  chain  of  wmug  is  forging, 

With  its  H'd  links  hid  from  view; 
And  he  st:uid«*th  by  th«'  |N'a<iimt, 

And  he  siandt'th  by  the  lord, 
And  he  shouts  "  Vour  rights  an*  Wjual ! " 

Till  earth  start U:s  at  the  wonL 

He  hath  «»een  the  n'«*onl  written, 

Fnim  the  primal  morn  of  man, 
111  the  bhKMl  of  battling  nations 

()*<'r  <'n^«anguin4Nl  ]dairH  that  ran  ; 
In  the  t«Mirh  of  the  dtdudrd. 

In  till*  sweat  of  tin'  oppn*ssM, 
I'll  mi  liid*^  farih^M  p<M»|d(Ml  1)onh*rs 

Tti  tlir  n»*w  worlds  of  tli«'  West. 
And  h«'  Cometh  with  d«divenin(*(' ! 

And  hi'«  miglit  >hall  '«<n»ii  Im^  known,    ' 
>N  hi'iv  th«'  wnmgM  ri-«'  U[»  for  ju^tici*,   ! 

And  tin*  wn»ng«Ts  li<*  o\rthrown. 

Wo!  ihf  priih'  that  iht>n  shall  M*orii  him : 

llr  will  bring  it  fitly  low  I 
\\  o !  ih(*  ann  that  -hall  op)M)<i>  liim  : 

III   uill  cli-ave  it  at  a  blow! 
W  «i  *   ihf  hoMs  that  -ball  b«--ft  him  : 

llr  i^dt  M'attiT  them  abroad  ! 
Ill-  vtiit  ^tiiki*  th«*m  down  tbrevtT ! 

Uiulii-ulo'*  i^  of  (lod. 


THE  BETTER  DAY. 

Workers  high,  and  worken  low, 

Wean*  workers  eveiy  where. 
For  the  New  Age  munding  to 

Like  a  planet,  now  pr«iiare! 

•  •  •  • 

Di'lver  in  the  dci^p  chirk  mine. 
Where  no  rays  of  sunlight  shine ; 
Toiler  in  unwholesome  rooms. 
Foul  and  <lamp  with  lingeriDg 
Worker  by  the  hot  highway. 
In  the  blinding  bkize  of  day- 
Come  it  cold,  or  come  it  hot. 
Hi*  of  s|)irit :  falter  not ; 
Toil  is  duty,  growth,  and  gain ; 
Never  wa-ted — never  vain  I 
Patient,  ]H-nt-iip  mim-mnchine. 
At  the  loom  and  shuttle  e^een. 
Weaving  in  with  nicest  art 
Tiintbbings  of  thy  own  poor  heart. 
Till  tbr  Mibtile  t('xtun*s  seem 
With  tliv  verv  life  to  srleam*- 
Hard  till*  toil  but  work  awaT: 
Yet  .shall  dawn  the  Better  Daj ! 

Siitrlier,  by  the  cradle'ji  5ide, 
W}i«*n'  thy  fondest  ho|ie!i  abide, 
Working  with  a  heart  of  might 
All  till'  day  and  ludf  the  night, 
( >fti*n  till  the  ca^it  gn>ws  red 
Willi  till'  dawning,  fiir  thy  bread; 
Thon;;Ii  thou  art  of  fi^eble  limb. 
And  thine  cyi'.o  an*  fuiincd  and  din, 
S»ijiiini:  oil*,  with  everj*  piece 
Wliifli  liiy  w«*ary  hand«»  releaM, 
Portiuiis  of  thy  life  wniught  in 
With  till*  gariiifut.  while  and  thii 
Wiirk  and  wait :  tin*  end  is  forej 
Tinii-  lii<*  o{V<>pi*ing  will  mnfure: 
Work  with  will,  and  work  awaj, 
l>«inlitiiiL'  not  the  H'tter  Dar! 

Workor^  liii'li.  ancl  workers  k>w, 
Wiary  worki-rs  ever}'  whel^ 

For  tlir  Ni'W  AiTi'  ronnding  to 
Lik<*  a  plani't,  now  pn*pare! 


L88&-iO.] 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


149 


See !  the  night  is  Dearly  past, 
And  the  morning  dawns  at  lasL 
Far  behind,  the  shadows  lie 
Dark  upon  the  western  sky ; 
While  before,  the  east  is  gray 
Where  the  harbinger  of  day, 
Roanding  up  the  azure  cope, 
Flamesy  the  morning-star  of  Hope  I 
Be  not  hasty ;  be  not  rash  ; 
Though  its  beams  within  you  flash 
Calm  endurance  is  sublime  : 
Falter  not,  but  bide  your  time. 
— Weary  workers,  work  away ; 
God  will  lead  the  Better  Day  ! 


OUR  CHILDREN. 

Thet  are  stricken,  darkly  stricken  ; 

Faint  and  fainter  grows  each  breath  ; 
And  the  shadows  round  them  thicken. 

Of  the  darkness  that  is  Death. 
We  are  with  them — bending  o*er  them — 

And  the  Soul  in  sorrow  saith, 
^  Would  that  I  had  passed  before  them, 

To  the  darkness  that  is  Death ! " 

They  are  sleeping,  coldly  sleeping, 

In  the  graveyard  still  and  lone, 
Where  the  winds,  above  them  sweeping, 

Make  a  melancholy  moan. 
Thickly  round  us — darkly  o'er  us — 

Is  the  pall  of  sorrow  thrown ; 
And  our  heart-beats  make  the  chorus 

Of  that  melancholy  moan. 

They  are  waking,  brightly  waking. 

From  the  slumbers  of  the  tomb, 
And,  enrobed  in  light,  forsaking 

Its  impenetrable  gloom. 
They  are  rising — they  have  risen — 

And  their  spirit-forms  illume, 
In  the  darkness  of  Death's  prison, 

The  impenetrable  gloom. 


They  are  parsing,  upward  passing. 

Dearest  beings  of  our  love, 
And  their  spirit-forms  are  glassing 

In  the  beautiful  Above : 
There  we  see  them — there  we  hear  them — 

Through  our  dreams  they  ever  move ; 
And  we  long  to  be  a-near  them, 

In  the  beautiful  Above. 

They  are  going,  gently  going. 

In  their  angel-robes  to  stand, 
Where  the  river  of  Life  is  flowing 

In  the  far-off  Silent  Land. 
We  shall  mourn  them — ^we  shall  miss  them. 

From  our  broken  little  band ; 
But  our  souls  shall  still  caress  them, 

In  the  fisuvoff  Silent  Land. 

They  are  singing,  sweetly  singing, 

Far  beyond  the  vail  of  Night, 
Where  the  angel-harps  are  ringing. 

And  the  Day  is  ever  bright 
We  can  love  them — we  can  greet  them — 

From  this  land  of  dinmier  light, 
Till  God  takes  us  hence  to  meet  them 

Where  the  Day  is  ever  bright. 


A  HYMN  OF  THE  DAY  THAT  IS  DAWNING. 

If  the  promise  of  the  present 
Be  not  a  hollow  cheat. 
If  true-hearted  men  and  women 
Prove  faithful  and  discreet, 
If  none  falter  who  are  hoping 
And  contending  for  the  Right, 
Then  a  time  is  surely  coming. 
As  a  day-beam  from  the  night — 

When  the  landless  shall  have  foothold 

In  fee  upon  the  soil. 
And  for  his  wife  and  little  ones 

Bend  to  his  willing  toil : 


i:>o 


WILLIAM   D.  GALLAOHGR. 


[ISSMI 


When  tlic  waiKlcrcr,  no  loii^r 

In  sorrow  i'orood  to  ruuni, 
Sliiill  M'ii  uround  him  sprin;^  mi<l  bloom 

The  bled>c'd  things  of  home : 

Wlien  tlie  poor  mu\  widowinl  mother 
Shiill  fit  HM-ompense  obtain, 

For  her  days  urid  ni*rhts  of  toiling, 
Fn)m  the  sordid  mim  of  gain  : 

When  tlie  brawny  limbs*  of  hi)»or. 
And  the  liard  and  honiy  hand, 

For  their  striving:*,  for  their  doinga. 
Meet  honor  tiliall  i*ommand : 

When  sufiering  h<'arts,  that  struggle 

In  8ilen(*i*,  and  en<lun*, 
Shall  receive,  unsought,  the  earnest 

Ministrations  of  the  pure : 

When  the  master  with  hU  bondr-mon 
For  a  price  shall  divide  the  soil, 

And  the  slave,  at  last  eiifnmchised, 
Shidl  go  singing  to  his  toil : 

When  the  IdiMxlv  tni<le  of  the  soldier 

Shall  la-ie  it^t  olden  charm, 
And  the  sickle  liand  be  honore<l  more 

Than   the  sword  and   the  n.'d   ri;rht 
arm: 

When  tolcnincf*  and  tnithfulness 

Shall  not  Im>  unthT  Imn, 
And  th«>  ticH'i'st  f()0  atifl  deadliest 

Man  knows,  >hnll  not  Ix*  m:ui. 

H<'  timi,  and  l)0  united, 
Y«»  who  war  against  the  wrong! 
Thonjrh  noglivtinl,  though  dt'»M'rte<l, 
In  your  pnqK^^e  still  Im*  strrnig ! 
To  th«*  faith  and  ho|M'  that  move  you 
In  th<*  things  ye  dan*  and  di>. 
ThoU'jli  thi*  world  riM*  up  ag:iinst  you, 
Hi"  n'soluh* — Ih»  tnie ! 


DANPELIONS. 

Mr  heart  l«*a|M  like  a  ehikl*ty  when  firH 
I  M.*i*  them  on  their  lowlj  bteni. 

As  from  still  wint*ry  fields  thej  Imntv 
Bright  a**  the  blue  skies  over  tbenit 

Sprinkling  with  gold  the  meadowy  greci, 

Where  Springes  approach  u  eariieit  MOi 

They  come  in  changeful  April  dajii 
These  children  of  the  cloud  and  son, 

When  light  with  shadow  aoAIy  plaji. 
As  both  ahmg  the  ridges  run. 

Wooing  the  l>ee  from  out  his  cell. 

With  rules  of  flowery  slopes  thej  lelL 

Bright  horologe  of  seasons — they 
Pro(*laim  the  rii»ral  calends  hcrei 

Revealing  when  hi  woods  away 

Spring  flowers,  and  singing  birds  appoi 

Through  o]N'n  aisle  and  mazy  boat 

To  lure  the  feet  of  chihiliood  oat 

I  love  th«.>m  that  so  soon  they  spring 
When*  slo|K*<9  the  meadow  to  the  bcook 

I  love  thiMu  that  to  earth  they  bring 
So  chc>frful  and  so  worm  a  looki 
'  And  that  a^ain  they  give  to  roe 

The  play  mat  (*s  of  my  infancy. 

() !  davs  of  love,  and  tru«t,  and  tnilhs 
I      (Th«*  mondng  ^k\  is  strangely  brigfal!) 
i(>!  lovi-d  iftnipanions  of  my  yoath: 
I      (How  darkly  chnt^  in  the  night!) 
I  A;:ain  tlit-  ti«-Id<  spn»nil  free  and  far; 

Brvond  them,  still  the  woodlands 


I'm  with  you  now,  glad-hearted  ones! 

Wli<*n-*«*r  iifnt'ath  the  April  sky 
The  flashing  rill  in  mu>ic  runs, 

Or  tldwery  l:iwn«^  in  sunlight  li&— 
,  WlM-n*  liarvfM  apples  ri|»e  we  see, 
j  And  whtTf  the  summer  berries  be. 

I 
I'm  with  vtiu  wlifpe  the  cardinal  bod 

I      l*i\n.'!*  in  the  budding  groves  of  spring 


I 


WILLIAM    D.   GALLAGHER. 


151 


ere  the  thrasher's  song  is  heard 
11  the  summer  forests  ring ; 
outs  in  autumn  fall,  and  where 
d  grape  hangs,  I'm  with  you  there. 

i  of  love,  and  trust,  and  truth ; 
flowers  were  bright  upon  tlie  lawn !) 
d  companions  of  my  youth : 
'  many,  like  the  flowers,  are  gone !) 
rer  nor  child  goes  down  in  vain : 
shall  rise  and  bloom  again. 


NOCTES  DIVINORUM. 

r  is  black :  the  earth  is  cold : 
aboring  moon  gives  little  light : 
fits  in  ghostly  tones  unfold 
ecrets  of  the  deep,  dread  night, 
nmering  round  and  round  me,  glide 
i  fancies  of  the  midnight  bom, 
iked  with  shadowy  sprites  that  ride 
losky  hours  of  eve  and  mom. 

oiages,  that  haunt  the  sight, 
a  and  crime,  and  want  and  woe, 
jen  my  guests  for  hours  to-night, 
}till  are  passing  to  and  fro. 
away !  and  so  they  may ! 
do  not  tell  the  lie  of  life ; 
I  is  truer  than  the  day ; 
!  oAen  falser  far  than  strife. 

^s  out :  a  year  comes  in : 
swiftly  and  how  still  they  flee  I 
ission  had  the  year  that's  been  ? 
mission  hath  the  year  to  be  ? 
her  man !  look  wisely  back, 
;  the  far  and  fading  days, 
sely  scan  the  crowded  track 
bich  the  light  of  memory  plays. 

nd  with  whom  you  took  your  wine 
ir  ago— where  is  he  now  ? 


The  child  you  almost  thought  divine. 
Such  beauty  robed  its  shining  brow — 

The  wife  upon  whose  pillowing  breast 
Misleading  doubts  and  carking  care 

Were  ever  gently  lulled  to  rest — 

Where  are  they  now,  my  brother,  where? 

In  vain  you  start,  and  look  around  I 

In  vain  the  involuntary  call ! 
The  graveyard  has  an  added  mound 

For  wife,  or  child,  or  friend — or  all. 
And  downward  to  the  dust  with  them, 

How  many  garnered  hopes  have  gone  I 
Yet  they  were  those  ye  thought  to  stem 

The  tide  of  time  with,  pressing  on. 

Ah !  Hope  is  such  a  flattering  cheat, 

We  scarce  can  choose  but  him  believe ! 
We  see  and  feel  his  bold  deceit. 

Yet  trust  him  still,  to  still  deceive. 
Despair  is  truer  far  tlian  he ! 

Though  dark  and  pitiless  its  form, 
It  never  bids  us  look,  and  see 

The  sunshine,  when  it  brings  the  storm. 


Farewell !  old  year :  yet  by  your  bier 

I  linger,  if  I  will  or  no : 
For  sorrow  tends  to  link  as  finends 

Those  who  had  hardly  else  been  so. 
How  often  back,  along  the  track 

Which  you  and  I  have  wearily  traced, 
My  bleeding  heart  will  sadly  start 

To  view  again  that  desert  waste  I 

Aha !  old  year,  you've  brought  the  tear, 

In  spite  of  all  I  thought  or  said : 
I  did  not  know  one  still  could  flow. 

So  many  you  have  made  me  shed. 
You're  stiff*  and  stark  :  you're  gone ! "  .  . . 
'Tis  dark. 

Here  where  I  sit  and  sigh  alone. 
But  wipe  the  eye,  and  check  the  sigh : 

What's  he,  who  hath  not  sorrow  known? 


152 


WILLIAM    D.   GALLAGHEB. 


[lKi» 


Di'spair  roaj  tmer  be  llian  IIo|>e ; 

But  Hope  id  mightier  fiir  than  he ! 
Ah  rounding  up  yon  8tnrles.s  co|)e, 

Even  now  to-morrow's  nun  I  see, 
So  Hope  bringi^  day  before  'tis  day. 

And  antedate:)  a  won!,  or  deed. 
Or  thought,  that  shall  )>e  felt  for  aye, 

And  help  us  in  our  sorest  need. 

Ah,  Hope  is  truer  tlian  Despair! — 

What  says  the  iron  tongue  of  time, 
From  yon  old  turret  high  in  air, 

Pealing  the  centuries'  march  sublime? 
'*  Ciod  gives  to  man  another  yeiur, 

With  Hope  his  friend ! "    Bereaved  one, 
Uncloud  the  brow,  dry  up  the  tear — 

Joy  oometh  with  tlie  morrow's  sun  ! 


HARVEST  HYMN. 

Grkat  God!  —  our  heart-felt  tluinks  to 
Thee! 

We  feel  thy  presence  every  where ; 
And  pray  that  we  may  ever  be 

Thus  objects  of  thy  guardian  care. 

We  «)wed  ! — by  Thee  our  work  was  seen. 
And  blessed ;  and  instantly  went  forth 

Thy  mandate ;  and  in  living  green 

Soon  smiled  the  fair  and  fruitful  earth. 

We  toiled ! — and  Thou  di(L»t  note  our  toil ; 

And  gav'st  the  ^un^hiiie  and  the  rain. 
Till  ripened  on  the  teeming  M>il 

The  fragrant  gra>:*  and  golden  gniin. 

And  now,  we  reap ! — and  uh,  our  Gmi ! 

From  this,  the  earth's  unl>uunded  floor, 
W(*  send  our  Siitig  of  Tiimiks  ahroiul. 

And  pniy  Thei*,  bK.'>s  our  hoanied  8tore ! 


«« WHEN  LAST  THE  VAPL^E  BUD  Wi 
SWELUNG." 


When  last  the  maple  bud  was  nrellini; 

When  last  the  crocus  bloomed  below 
Thy  heart  to  mine  its  love  was  tellini^ 

Thy  soul  with  mine  kepi  Mt  and  flo 
Agiun  the  maple  bud  ia  swelling — 

Again  the  crocus  blooma  below — 
In  heaven  thy  lu*art  its  love  is  telling. 

But  still  our  Houls  keep  ebb  and  floa 

When  hist  the  April  bloom  wa»  flngioi 

Sweet  o<lorK  on  the  air  of  Spriag, 
In  forest-aisles  thy  voice  was  ringings, 

When*  thou  didst  with  the  red-bird  ei 
Again  the  April  bloom  is  flinging 

Sweet  odors  on  the  air  of  Spring. 
But  now  in  heaven  thy  voice  ia  nEginf 

Where  thou  dost  with  the  angeb  sio! 


THE  WEST.* 

Broad  plains — blue  waters — ^liilb  and  * 

leys, 

Tliat  ring  with  anthems  of  the  free ! 

Brown-pillared  groves,  with  green-aiv 

aUeys, 

That  Freedom's  holiest  templet  be! 

Tln»se  fort^st-aisles  are  full  of  atoiy:^ 
IL'H'  m:inv  a  one  of  old  renown 

First  sought  tht*  mt'tiMir-light  of  glort. 
And  mid  its  traiiMent  flash  went  d«« 

Ili.-torir  names  forever  greet  us, 
Wherf*«T  our  wandering  way  we  tin 

Familiar  forms  and  fares  meet  nj»— 
As  living  walk  with  us  the  dead. 

Man's  fam»\  so  ofti»n  evanescent. 
Links  here  with  thiHighta  and  things  I 
last: 

And  all  the  )iri;rht  and  teeming  Prem 
Thrills  with  the  groat  and  glorious  F 


•  WrIttoD  ft>r  chU  Td 


WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER. 


153 


r  FIFTIETH  YEAR, 

te  this  day  my  fiftieth  year : 
it  not  that  tell-tale  gray  hath 

DOt  of  youth  upon  my  head ; 
-sooth !  about  my  eyes  appear 
wrinkles ;  and  that,  likewise, 

;  a  joint  is  not  as  once  it  was, 
id  nimble  as  a  deer's,  but  does 
(what  my  motions  when  I  try 
games  of  early  manhood,  I 
mt  myself  upon  life's  thresh- 

)irit  live  its  olden  fires, 

eart  still  quicken  the  desires 

ed  me  ere  the  fever  and  the 

me  what  worn  my  nature  down. 
)r  waking,  oft  I  still    dream 

)  visions;    and  the  shadowy 

g,  as  the  purpling  morning, 

»rms  and  spirit-tones,  that  lift 
t)m  out  the  dismal  days,  that 

»nward,  like  a  very  leaf. 

ink  and  feol  I  do,  behold 

of  Truth  before  my  eyes  un- 

;en  and  now  is  my  belief, 
n  their  sins  do  men  grow  old. 
like    perpetual  springs,  that 

and  bloom  about  them  ever- 

3  destroying  gales  that  sweep 
and  lay  waste  from  shore  to 

ot  feeble :  Hope  is  ever  young: 

ty  is  gifted  like  a  god 

ess  and  ardor.     Valor  sprung 


An  Athlete  from  his  birth,  and  went 
abroad 
For  high  emprises,  and  is  Athlete  still  : 
Endurance  is  another  name  for  will. 
Which  time  overcomes  not:  patience,  meek- 
ness, love, 
That  came  from  and  shall  yet  return  above, 
Weary    not    in    the   ceaseless  march  of 
years. 
Nothing  man  knows  or  is,  but  Sin,  grows 
old; 
And  she  a  wrinkled,  loathsome  hag  ap- 
pears. 
Ere  half  a  life  hath  half  its  seasons  told. 

Beautiful,  beautiful  Youth!    that  in  the 
soul 
Liveth  forever,  where  sin  liveth  not 
How  fresh  Creation's  chart  doth  still  un- 
roU 
Before  our  eyes,  although  the  little  spot 
That  knows  us  now,  shall  know  us  soon  no 

more 

Forever  I     We  look  backward,  and  before, 

And  inward,  and  we  feel  there  is  a  life 

Impelling  us,  that  need  not  with  this  frame 

Or  flesh  grow  feeble,  but  for  aye  the  same 

May   live   on,  e'en  amid  this  worldly 

strife. 

Clothed  with  the  beauty  and  the  freshness 

still 
It  brought  with  it  at  first ;  and  that  it  will 
Glide  almost  imperceptibly  away. 
Taking  no  taint  of  this  dissolving  clay ; 
And,  joining  with  the  incorruptible 
And  spiritual  body  that  awaits 
Its  coming  at  the  starr'd  and  golden  gates 
Of  Heaven,  move  on  with  the  celestial  train 
Whose  shining  vestments,  as  along  they 

stray. 
Flash  with  the  splendors  of  eternal  day ; 
And  mingle  with  its  Primal  Source  again. 
Where  Faith,  Hope,  Charity,  and  Love 

and  Truth, 
Dwell  with  the  Godhead  in  immortal 
youth. 


J 


JAMES  H.  PERKINS. 


I 


Vl.^   :(  \.m»a^a^i.>   Pkkkins,  the    voun;ast   child  of   Suiiiuel  G.  Perkini  and  , 

*  vi  . >.i. .«  M : ;;^^iiiM.>ii. « :l«  bom  iu  Huston,  MasMichusett.<,  .July  thirty-one,  1  f)10.    Ilu rarij   , 

.■\   y\\^   svuL   :ii  nK-i\*Hiitilo  pursuit*,  but  sto(*kd  and  tnuh*  wi*n.*  not  i\>ngt-nial  Iu  kii   , 

,^•.1  >,  i.iu  i>  ^1111  ^-^  Iw  w:k<i  at  lil^Tty  to  act  for  himself,  ht*  ahandoned  ihi'in.     lie 

\  .1    i\«4  u  v^Mou  :v>  Icdi:!'!^  and  fxik'  from  study,  would  i*onvert  him  into  a  mrn:  <io{i}io» 

!..»« .i..i^ .     I U  ioii^vd  lor  murt'  t-arnot  and  congenial  inten^ourM*  than  could  1m*  i^u^lAiDrd   ' 

H.'.'i  I. «    \tiiisuii\>ii>  .uniiUt  tiic  excitement  of  buMness.     Nor  did  he  feel  cun'<*iiiU.«  that    • 

Is    •^'.^%  vx^vi    iu-  ki\e  of  money-niakin;;  which  is  the  ])rt*re4ui>ite  of  worldly  puo^MAk   • 

Mix     «^  «    ;>-toliuil'^  o^K-uetl  to  the  true  chanu'ter  of  coni{K.Mitive  commerctr.      Thk 

x.Wk.     lit.    i:<«i   VI  ah  diMnay,  then  with  di^g1l^t.     For  a  time  he  became  a  com|»kle    > 

.«•.«.      I'.v    \^>«vi:u-tc  iif  hollow  conventional  customs  the  pritle  of  the  opulent  and   • 

■  'is      ..  -^  :.;   .v»iivVv«ion^  o\'   the  needy,  with  the  fawnint;  tlatteiy  that   vitixOe^  ifae    I 

«xsi.o    .      •€   MJiioiuibU'  life,  awakened  in  his  heart  a  fee hn;:  of  Mid  contempt.     He   i 

^.s  •!       .   ■   iui  Mititi  ill  his  >)HM(li,  ran*less  in  hi»  dn*>s,  utterly  neglectful  of  etiquette,    ; 

IV  «    «...   .  tiis\^i  iMotAtM'  iu  maimer,  and  Military  in  his  ways.  I 

t  .      ^  >  '  K  vuu-iiiiiiied  to  (tune  to  the  We>t  to  >eek  his  tbrtune,  and  in  Febnarr   i 

I.     ^,.t:     4iit\vd  ui  i^iiu-imuiti.      While  makin;:  arraii;;ement>  for  the  sebrctioo  of    j 

I     .4  ....  N^uiuo    iiUrreM«Ml    in  the  study  of  the  law,  and  entered  the  otlice  of    { 

I « :.;...!«  W  t'kv't  c4«  H  student.     In  the*  lan^ruarrc  of  hi>  I'riend,  Wm.  II.  Cluinnin;;,  ^The 

^ ..ii,>.,{.!u-iv  \*t'  ihe  ijneen  City  preM'nt«'d  a  dt'Ii;;litful  contrast  to  the  frigid  and 

k  «.!ii.t:    .«>i>%- v*l   Ih^^iou   s«H-iety.      In  tht>  place  (if  fashionable  coldness,  arlMorratir 
'i.i  ,.i   ,  ,   ■.  .\  K  )*iidc  iwletitatiiin,  nx-rve,  nonn^ommittaliMn,  the  tyranny  of   cliquey 
^  .1     i.    ,..4i  s*i   Uader<i,  he  found  himself  movin;r  ain<in:;  a  |ilea<^uit  comfianr  of  bat-    • 
,     .  -..    .i  \,  louiixhn^.  plain— |Niken.  elieerful  friends  ;:atltiT('(l  fixini  all  |uuts  of  the    ' 
t  rt  ,  ..    lit  Usv.vd  at  once  by  clioice  and  |>i*omi>ru(iii«  iiitrn'ourM*,  fntin  the  trummeb   ■ 
.    ».    *   4ntl  «oh\enlional  pi*ejuilice.     He  breathed  I'or  <iuce  freely,  and  felt  with  joj   j 
'M^sl   itoMiiivi  (puck  and  \iarm  thr(in;:lioiit   hi^ -pirinial  fnmie.     He  caughu  toat»   | 
'.  ..v  411    lu*prlubie«*<«  that  animates   a  yointt:.  \  iLr<>rnu<«.  and  «;niwin*;  communitj, 
\x\  di  iKhhiily  With  ;rniup-  (if  lii;:h-hearie«l.  eiiterpri-in;;  men,  ju>t  entering  ' 
..  u  ^,iuvi>..  and  impelled  by  the  liojw  of  ;:iiieniu>  M-rvici-  in  the  literaij,  pn^ 
,   . »'.  .'I   x>%immeivnd  lite." 
\,      W    K\\\^  \nis  admitted  to  the  Uir  in  the  -jiriniMif  1«:U,  and  early  in  the  follow* 
\\  ix  married  to  Sandi  H.  Kllioti,  a  lady  wh(i*e  ta-ie-  and  character  were   \ 
^xHiiiaM  to  his  own,  thus   t'tirni-iliiiit:  a   ba-i-i  f<»r  a  ran*   intelle«'tual  hai^   i 

■ 

x      -x^xed  an   unfailinir  >prin'j  of  liapjiiiie--   and  improvement  durinsr  hii  j 

Hi''  iiimmencenu'nl  in  tin-  pr.u-iii'e  iif  law  i*eve:iled  a  lii/h  onWof  [ 

.    :  ,.,  11,'d  the  mtiM  lirilliant  iMr«"»Ti;d  siii-ee^s.    Hut  he  remaiiiefl<Hdva«hoit  ' 
.     .    .  of'  iiiri<pruilen(*e.     He  tiMni«i  tlie  pnieiiee  of  law  entindy  diflenat 

1   |.*'4 


v'i 
.1. 


1830-40.]  JAMES   H.    PERKINS.  IfiS 

from,  the  pure  and  delightful  excitement  of  the  study,  and  soon  abandoned  it  in  utter 
disgust.  His  reasons  for  this  step  were  the  bad  effects  of  a  sedentary  life  upon  his 
healthy  the  depressing  intellectual  influence  of  the  drudgery  of  the  profession,  and  his 
repugnance  to  the  common  standard  of  morality  prevailing  at  the  bar. 

He  now  applied  himself  with  great  energy  to  the  uncertain  profession  of  literature, 
engaging  largely  in  editorial  labors,  and  frequently  contributing  to  several  important 
periodicals.  He  wrote  poems,  tales  and  essays  for  the  Western  Monthly  Magazine^ 
edited  by  James  Hall,  and  was,  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  1834,  the  editor  of  the 
Saiurday  Evening  Chronicle^  which,  in  the  winter  of  1835,  he  purchased  and  united 
with  the  CincinncUi  Mirror,  edited  and  published  by  Gallagher  and  Shreve.  He  was 
one  of  the  editors  of  the  Mirror  for  about  six  months.  Thomas  H.  Shreve,  who  was 
a  fellow-student  as  well  as  a  fellow-editor  at  that  time,  in  a  sketch  of  Mr.  Perkins,  said: 

He  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  Into  the  office  early  in  the  moroiDg,  and,  withoat  any  prelimin- 
aries, woald  prooeed  to  his  table,  and  write  as  if  he  had  just  stepped  oat  a  moment  before.  It  was 
one  of  his  characteristics,  I  think,  to  do  what  he  designed  doing  at  onct^  for  he  was  a  true  economist 
of  time,  and  acted  while  persons  generally  w^ould  be  getting  ready  to  act 

He  would  frequently  turn  round  and  ask  my  opinion  of  some  subject  on  which  he  happened  to 
be  writing.  A  conversation,  perhaps  a  controversy,  would  ensue.  His  object  was  not  so  much  to 
ascertain  my  opinions,  as  to  place  his  own  mind  in  a  condition  to  act  sufficiently.  When  our  talk 
was  ended,  he  would  resume  his  writing. 

I  remember  well  his  appearance  in  the  Inquisition.*  His  speeches  in  that  society  were  always 
truly  admirable.  The  logic,  the  wit,  the  sunny  humor,  the  raillery,  were  alike  irresistible.  The 
same  wide  resources  of  mind  that  he  subsequently  displayed  in  the  pulpit  were  exhibited  in  the 
Inquisitioa  debates,  and  we  all  felt  that  when  we  had  him  as  an  opponent  we  had  much  to  fear.  I 
remember,  too,  his  lectures  on  **  Fishes  '^  and  *'•  Insects,''  before  the  Mechanics'  Institute.  They 
embodied  the  most  graceful  and  witching  blending  together  of  humor  and  science  I  ever  listened 
to.  I  shall  never  forget  his  account  of  the  ant-lion,  which  convulsed  every  one  present.  Had  Mr. 
Perkins  devoted  himself  to  humorous  literature,  he  would  have  stood  at  the  head  of  American 
writers  in  that  line.  Indeed,  as  a  humorist,  original  and  gentle,  he  could  scarcely  be  excelled. 
But  BO  well  developed  were  all  the  faculties  of  his  mind,  that,  notwithstanding  the  prominence  of 
his  humor  when  compared  with  the  humor  of  others,  it  only  balanced  his  other  faculties. 

In  the  summer  of  1835,  Mr.  Perkins  engaged  with  two  or  three  friends  in  a  manu- 
facturing enterprise  at  Pomeroy,  Ohio.  Active  exercise  kept  him  in  health,  and  for 
a  few  months  he  was  contented  at  Pomeroy,  superintending  and  planning  for  a  large 
company  of  workmen ;  but  the  enterprise  was  not  remunerative,  and,  in  the  autumn 
of  1837,  Mr.  Perkins  abandoned  it  and  returned  to  Cincinnati.  He  projected  several 
books,  but  the  following  year  completed  only  a  series  of  critical  and  historical  articles 
for  the  New  York  Quarterly^  and  the  North  American  Review, 

In  January,  1838,  he  delivered  an  address  before  the  Ohio  Historical  Society, 
at  Columbus,  on  "Subjects  of  Western  History."  He  immediately  afterward 
projected  "The  Annals  of  the  West,"t  which,  as  William  H.  Channing  has  said,  is 
"a  work  whose  accuracy,  completeness,  thoroughness  of  research,  clear  method,  and 
graceful  perspicuity  of  style  show  his  admirable  qualifications  for  an  historian." 

*  A  Utenry  loeiety  composed  of  the  wrlten  and  students  of  the  citj. 

t  Annalf  of  the  West ;  embracing  a  concise  account  of  the  principal  erents  in  the  Western  States  and  Territories, 
from  the  discovery  of  the  Mississippi  Valley  to  1845,  by  James  H.  Perkins.    James  Albach,  Cincinnati,  1847. 


I 


Uti  JAMK6    li.    1*KKK1NS.  [1630^ 

111  «irticli:n*  on  "Kurly  Fiviich  TruvcK'rs  in  the  West,"  ^English  DiiooTtsrin  u 
the  Ohio  VulK*)-,"  -Fifty  Wan  of  Ohio,"  -The  Tioneerhof  Kiailucky,"  -The  Nortb- 
Wesitern  Territor}',"  and  on  '*The  Literature  of  the  WeAt,"  Mr.  i:*erkiiis  nhihiliiJ 
not  only  (lenetniting  uimly^iLi,  bound  judgment,  luid  regard  tor  truth,  bul  libeni  fim- 
siglit,  and  ahiduig  taith. 

In  1839  Mr.  Perkins  became  Muiister-ot-hirge  to  the  poor  of  Cincinnati.  lie  gavt 
his  best  powers  of  mind  and  body,  with  earnest  devotion,  to  the  numeroas  dutiee  ibtf 
otKoe  n*(|uired,  and  mstituted  benevolent  enterprises  from  which  the  poor  of  Cindih 
luiti  now  derive  protection  and  con!*ohition.  Peculiar  gills  of  sympathetic  preefti 
nient,  and  of  el(K|uent  s|>eech,  together  with  Christian  feeling  and  purpose,  manilcstod 
by  Mr.  Pfrkiiis  as  Minister-at -large,  led  the  Unitarian  Soi*iety  of  Cincinnati,  in  1841, 
to  invite  him  to  bei^omc  its  pastor.  He  accepted,  lie  did  not,  however,  forego  liter- 
iu*y  pursuits,  and  he  manifested  wise  and  active  interest  in  public  education,  vifitiiig 
schools  mid  delivering  lectures,  criticising  old  mid  suggesting  new  methods.  Espedallj 
did  he  di-inonstnite  the  wi>dom  of  better  education  for  girls  than  either  public  or  J 
private  schools  then  u>ually  aHorded. 

In  1844  Mr.  Perkins  was  chosen  President  of  the  Cincinnati  IILstorical  Sodetj,  i 
then  orgiuiiz4>d.  in  1849,  wli4*ii  the  Ohio  and  Cinciunati  Historical  Societiea  were 
united,  he  became  Vice  President  and  Reconling  Secretary.  Although  hi*  moat  Bli- 
mate  friends  assured  him  that  he  had  n^niarkable  gift^  as  a  preaclier,  though  hii 
church  was  always  crowded  when  he  preached,  though  he  luui  good  reason  to  believe 
that  his  sermons  were  not  without  practical  usefulness,  Mr.  Perkins  was  never  HOit- 
tii'41  with  his  pastoral  rehition,  an<l,  in  1847.  resigned  it.  His  resignation  waa  not 
accepted.  The  leading  members  of  the  So<*iety  confcrrt'd  with  him,  and  at  their 
request,  under  changes  of  organization,  which  he  deenitHl  ini|x>rtant,  he  withdrew  hii 
roignation,  and  remained  in  the  pastonil  charg«!  of  the  Unitarian  Church  antH  hii 
death,  which  took  {>lace  suddenly  on  the  fourtf*eiith  of  Dcix-ndHT,  1849. 

I  niiv.n  hcanl  ^Ir.  Perkins  prea<'h,  in  the  later  years  of  his  miniatry,  and  I  can  foOf 
indor.-e  what  William  Gn*eiie  of  Cincinnati  has  said  of  him: 

S(»iii<'  of  his  iiohli'Kt  fllort!*  bavf  U'cii  u|Min  cniniiniriplai-i'  i4.L-urp.'nc«-»t.  not  twentj-fuur  boon  old 
at  tbi*  tiiiu',  uhcii  he  would  iDitouish  Ui*  with  hli*  uinuziii^;  i>'i\%i  ^^  ot  fUtoini-nt  aiid  analjifif,  or  by 
the  iiK'ulcutiou  ot  roiin*  iii<M  iinpn-ioiM'  li-s^nii  \%hii'h  th*'\  ^<l^';;•'l>t<  d.     Nor  was  aoj 
part  of  h'lK  i»<i\vi'r  in  any  thiu^  that  uu.'*  m«-n'ly  omtttrii-ul :  Utv  hi>*  luaanvr,  though  always 
\ia.'4  ulwuvK  hiniplv.    Ik'  haii  nu  trU-ks  of  irniKi«ing  ft»rni,  u.<«  lo>i  many  haw,  to  vkc  oat 
or  Hianttv  of  Kulntanco. 

III-  felt  that  i-viTv  evfnt  in  the  drvrlopmcnt  of  humanity.  (»f  what**v«'r  grade  In  tb«  aeileof 
mvn-ly  factitious  Mandards  wa^.  in  ralcmn  n*ality,  an  i'i>^«'ntiul  |Mrt  of  thf  I*rovidi*iiceof  God,  and 
aK  ^ul-h.  of  higbf^t  uiouuut  iu  the  pri'iNT  i-MiniaU'  of  niau.  A<-:iu.;.  ttiinkin^.  and  ^peaking  aadcr 
this  conviL'tion  to  othcn*,  with  the  application  of  hi**  I'Xtraordinary  iut<-lltx'Uial  power  In  enfafciai 
hi>  thM(ii:htt<.  ho  t;ave  to  ordinary  «-\ih  rii-n^'fii  a  citnitiKUidinir  iiiti  p  ;>t.  To  him  waff  coocedfd.1iy 
juilii'iiiii'*  niind^,  that  authority  which  is  due  only  to  uiipnt'-niling  aixl  asnun-d  wiMlom,  anitE<d  vilk 
tli«>  spirit  of  di^inlt■^'fttld  U'nevoli'iuv.  Kvery  one  frit  thai  hi-  wnnl  w.us  true,  aud  hia  Mlvioeeii»- 
ftidiMtf  anil  w«U  niiiturcd.  Thit*  di>tinctiiin  ffavr  him  a  M%.iy  ii>i.r  pulilic  opinion,  which,  at  tbt 
Kini>-  tiiii«<  iliiii  it  d>  \t>lv*d  npiiu  liini  the  wri^htif!>t  ri!«p>in^i>iili ()«-'•  fi>r  thi*  public  good,  he  did  aol 
fail  to  apply,  and  with  >:ratiiyiii);  kuccimh,  to  the  mo;*!  litinnMkil*'  arid  un-ful  <-nds. 

•rontiiliuli>l  to  the  Sfv  Yvrk  A^rtnr  ftiitl  AVrrA  Amm-an  lUn^v. 


40.]  JAMP:S    H.    PERKINS.  157 

)r  nearly  twenty  years  Mr.  Perkins  had  been  subject  to  a  sudden  rush  of  blood 
te  head,  which  produced  distressing  vertigo,  at  times  impairing  his  sight  and  pro- 
ig  the  deepest  despondency ;  and  within  five  or  six  years  previous  to  his  decease, 
id  suffered  so  severely  from  palpitation  of  the  heart,  that  in  consequence  of  this 
nulation  of  ills,  his  reason  had  occasionally  been  wandering  for  short  periods. 
\ie  day  of  his  death,  a  paroxysm  of  this  kind  was  produced  by  the  supposed  loss 
)  two  boys,  one  nine,  the  other  seven  years  of  age,  who  had  gone  from  their  home 
i'^alnot  Hills,  to  Cincinnati.  Afler  a  most  fatiguing  and  anxious  search,  that  wsis 
y  relinquished  in  despair,  Mr.  Perkins  walked  (four  miles)  to  Walnut  Hills,  and 
ed  at  his  house,  which  his  children  had  reached  before  him,  in  a  state  of  intense 
ement  and  complete  exhaustion.  He  was  restless  and  nervous  to  a  degree  never 
e  witnessed  by  his  family,  and  near  evening  he  remarked  that  he  would  take  a 
to  calm  his  nerves,  but  would  not  be  gone  long.  He  was  never  seen  again,  by 
r  his  £unily  or  friends.  About  six  o'clock  P.  M.,  as  was  afterward  ascertained, 
ent  on  board  the  Jamestown*  ferry-boat,  with  arms  folded  and  eyes  downcast.  He 
lot  seen  to  leave  the  boat,  and  it  is  supposed  that,  when  not  observed,  threw  him- 
>verboard  and  was  drowned.  This  distressing  event  cast  the  deepest  gloom  over 
city  of  his  adoption.  Notwithstanding  the  most  strenuous  efforts  were  made 
le  recovery  of  the  remains  of  the  deceased,  they  were  never  discovered. 
WW  Mr.  Perkins,  at  the  comer  of  Fourth  and  Sycamore  streets,  Cincinnati,  when 
as  in  quest  of  his  children.  The  painful,  despairing  look  he  gave  an  omnibus 
ictor,  of  whom  he  inquired  in  vain  for  tidings,  I  can  never  forget. 
r.  Channing  has  said  truly  of  ]Mr.  Perkins : 

iltlesB,  or  wholly  freed  from  the  evils  of  temperament,  trainiDg,  caprice,  indolgence,  habit, 
erkins  confessedly  was  not ;  but  progressive,  aspiring,  humble,  honest,  centrally  diHintcrcHtid, 
ideniably  was.  The  utmost  impulse  of  his  will  was  right.  His  eye  was  single.  He  had 
1  ihe  good  as  his  law.  His  life  was  to  seek  the  inspiration  of  Divine  Love,  and  to  make  his 
hts  and  acts  a  fitting  medium  for  its  transmission.  .  .  .  With  unconscious  case,  f^om  boy- 
apwatd,  be  had  poured  forth  verses ;  but  the  true  poet  was  to  him  in  so  sublime  a  sense 
ihet,  that  he  was  never  willing  to  class  himself  among  that  chosen  band.  In  a  lecture  on 
'  Literature,  in  1840,  he  asks,  "  What  is  it  that  makes  a  work  poetical  ?  I  answer,  it  is  that 
vfaich  awakens  the  sense  of  the  divine — appealing  to  the  heart  through  some  form  of  sublim- 
r  beauty — some  holy  emotion — some  association  of  heavenly  affections  with  common  experi- 
The  poetic  element  is  that  which  lift.s  us  to  the  spiritual  world.  It  is  a  divine  essence,  that 
J  human  speech  poetry.  The  two  grand  powers  of  the  poet  are,  first,  that  of  perceiving  what 
IDB  a  sense  of  the  divine ;  and  second,  that  of  expressing  what  is  p<>(>tical  in  such  words  and 
cb  style  as  to  give  its  true  impression.  These  two  powers  may  exist  apart  A  critic  may  feel 
the  sense  of  the  divine  is  awakened,  but  he  cannot  be  a  poet  without  the  inventive  imagina- 
hat  can  give  to  it  a  local  embodiment  and  a  name.  Poetry  is  not  rhyme  or  verse  merely ;  but 
hat  chord  in  the  human  heart  which  sends  forth  harmony  when  struck  by  the  hand  of  nature, 
ssBential  spirit  of  beauty  which  speaks  from  the  soul,  in  the  highest  works  of  sculpture  or 
ng,  which  gives  eloquence  to  the  orator,  and  is  heard  as  the  voice  of  God."  It  was  in  his 
^Dce  as  an  orator,  that  his  own  poetic  genius  most  appeared. 

*  A  TillAge  on  the  Ohio  Rirer ^  three  miles  abore  Clnciniiatl. 


JAMES   II.   I'EHKINS. 


8I'IRITt'AL  PRESENCE. 

It  ii  a  beautiful  belief. 
That  ever  round  our  bead 
Are  hovering,  on  noiwledM  wing, 
The  «|>irita  of  the  ik-ad. 

It  is  a  beautiful  belief, 
When  ended  our  career, 
Tlut  it  will  be  our  minintiy 
To  wateb  oV-r  others  bere ; 

To  lend  a  moral  to  the  floirer; 
Breathe  wisdom  on  the  wind ; 
Toholdcomnium-,Btnight':t[iureno( 
With  the  impriiwn'd  mind ; 


To  bid  the  moumcra  cease  to  mourn. 
The  trembling  be  forgiven  ; 
To  bear  away,  from  ilU  of  day, 
The  infant  to  itd  heaven. 

Ah  1  when  delight  wafi  found  in  life. 
And  joy  in  i-very  breath, 
1  tatnnut  tell  how  terrible 
Tlie  mystefj  of  death. 

But  now  tbe  pat^t  is  bright  to  me, 
And  all  the  future  clear ; 
For  'ill  my  faith,  tliat  after  death 
1  EtiU  dball  lingiT  berc. 


THE  MA]I»E.N'.S  GRAVE 

Ih:  bud  a  »in;!le  i-bihl:  and  she 
Wii-  lieuuliful  to  tliat  dfgn-f, 
Tliiii  )H>t  II  lKii>r  till'  (-tnintry  round, 
lint  -I..H,k  f..rv<Ty]iw,'t<ii'd  t;-!ir. 
An.l  .^.M  bi>  . yes'u|«"i  ibe  ;.T.)un<l, 
Wl,.  r„(.-r!.be'.lr.-«M.iir: 
Tl:.    -ul  !li:it  Hirnd  h'  r  f.-.'l<l.-  limb 
W:..  -urb  »  •iiAUt  iLiim)  I.i  bim. 
Ami  yi'i  ^IH'  wiL<  till-  kiiidi'M  thing. 


It  seems  to  me,  (hat  ever  lived ; 
Nor  -tiitiriK  r'-  lu':ir,  nor  wintei^a  eeli 
Could  k.'i;.)>r.TlLx>ii>  ili.-Hckman^i 
With  fearlew  step  she  ii^kI  iIif  w«1| 
The  mountain  torrent  .>h''  lU'lti'i)— 
And  if  she  found  that  ■{■  .j:!i.  iii<|r-n|, 
Had  gruiped  him  with  his  clammy  hi 
tlx'M  't>^:<-ll'-^   'y\  lo  bid  him  ipeoi 


t   [•,■! 


Willi  liiK-  <t'  light  »be  drew  tbe  bn 
III  which  the  blessed  vhall  repoae; 
And  told,  in  mu»c,  of  the  bmin, 
When  from  error,  and  the  woea 
Tluit  clunter  tound  each  fbotalep  bw 
We  shall  go  up  from  ^ere  to  apba 
WtK-n.'  iiiiti'j  of  man  hath  aerer  4oi 
Nor  foot  of  ■.ini[ili  (v.T  trt"i; 
Beyond  the  ever-living  fimiit^ 
B<-yond  the  dim,  myiiterioiu  moan^ 
Beyond  tbe  IiL-t  :m'lit,iisil'-  tbron^ 
Into  the  very  presence  i\!  our  God. 
At  length  tre  missed  her  pleaaant  n 
It  was  the  *|irii>^'-ri.i.-  ■<{'  Ibe  jewj 
And  when  we  broke  the  clotted  aoO, 
And  bcntiered  the  mystetioiu  gran, 
She  did  not  i-ome  to  •liorr  oar  loJI  t 
And  in  the  villii-:e  ibere  were  Mne 
Tliai  wbii'iM-red,  that  *be  could  not  c 
Alus!  siic  never  came  npiin. 
Slic  ilti-<l.    And  when  the  iniib  mal 
Tlii-re  nune  uprni  our  rale  a  gloa^ 
t'|Kin  •.■!][  -utiMV  *;il'.',  a  chill — 
As  thi>u;;b  ilj<-.li.'i.l<.»^af  tb«  toob 
Had  I  to''"  'I  '11  It  neighboring  bilL 
Wi'....:  :       -       .   Iliat  she  waa  da 
JIiiK  f»M  :  .   perfect  bdi 

Anil  nioiildiT  into  powerless  dust? 
But  it  WH.-  i-o  :  we  dug  ber  giave, 
Anil  hiid  luT  by  ber  mother's  side. 
Tlii-  i-  lb'-  ^]K.i.    The  rank  weeds ' 
I'lHin  ii  riiu'"  till*  fiitlter  died. 
But  Mill,  iilung  ibe  ^bore,  the  mugt 
Cliuiiii-.li  biT  iu<'luii(-hi)ly  dir^; 
And  >tiil  iIk-  ;:li>w-wiirm%  funeral  B) 
ANivi'  hi-r  biinis;  aiH)  still,  you  tee, 
l>nioiM-ih  tbe  •olenin  willow  tmt 


1$3(M0.] 


JAMES    H.   PERKINS. 


159 


And  the  dews  weep  her,  night  hy  night 
And  still  at  mom  our  peasants  say, 
As  darkness  melteth  into  day, 
Unearthly  music  floats  away 
Above  this  lonely  spot: 
And  still  our  village  maidens  tell, 
How  sometimes,  at  the  vesper  bell, 
A  f(Mrm — ^they  know  not  what — 
Comes  dimly  on  the  breathless  air, 
Betwixt  them  and  the  western  sky. 
And  awes  them — *ti8  so  strange,  so  fur- 
Till  mingling  with  the  colors  there, 
The  scarce-seen  features  die. 
It  may  be  only  fancy's  hand 
That  paints  it ;  or  it  may  be  fear ; 
Or  it  may  be  the  spirit  bland 
Of  her  that  slumbers  here. 
But,  ah  I  we  never  more  shall  see. 
By  homely  hearth,  or  woodland  tree. 
Another  miaiden  such  as  she. 


THE  YOUNG  SOLDIER. 

Oh  !  was  ye  ne'er  a  school-boy  ? 

And  did  you  never  train, 

And  feel  that  swelling  of  the  heart 

Ton  cannot  feel  again  ? 

Didst  never  meet,  far  down  the  street, 

With  plimies  and  banners  gay. 

While  the  kettle,  for  the  kettle-drum 

Played  your  march,  march  away  ? 

It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday. 

Nor  scarce  so  long  ago. 

Since  we  shouldered  our  muskets 

To  charge  the  fearful  foe. 

Our  muskets  were  of  cedar  wood. 

With  ramrod  bright  and  new ; 

With  bayonet  forever  set, 

And  painted  barrel  too. 

We  charged  upon  a  flock  of  geese. 
And  put  them  all  to  flight. 


Except  one  sturdy  gander 
That  thought  to  show  us  fight : 
But,  ah !  we  knew  a  thing  or  two ; 
Our  captain  wheeled  the  van — 
We  routed  him,  we  scouted  him, 
Nor  lost  a  single  man. 

Our  captain  was  as  brave  a  lad 

As  e'er  commission  bore ; 

All  brightly  shone  his  good  tin  sword. 

And  a  paper  cap  he  wore ; 

He  led  us  up  the  hill-side. 

Against  the  western  wind. 

While  the  cockerel  plume,  that  decked 

his  head, 
Streamed  bravely  out  behind. 

We  shouldered  arms,  we  carried  aitns, 

We  charged  the  bayonet ; 

And  woe  unto  the  mullen  stalk 

That  in  our  course  we  met 

At  two  o'clock  the  roll  was  called, 

And  till  the  close  of  day. 

With  our  brave  and  plum^  captain 

We  fought  the  mimic  ftaj, — 

When  the  supper-bell,  we  knew  so  well, 

Came  stealing  up  from  out  the  dell, 

For  our  march,  march  away. 


POVERTY  AND  KNOWLEDGE. 

Ah  !  dearest,  we  are  young  and  strong. 
With  ready  heart  and  ready  will 

To  tread  the  world's  bright  paths  along ; 
But  poverty  is  stronger  stiU. 

Yet,  my  dear  wife,  there  is  a  might 
That  may  bid  poverty  defiance, — 

The  might  of  knowledge ;  from  this  night 
Let  us  on  her  put  our  reliance. 

Armed  with  her  scepter,  to  an  hour 
We  may  condense  whole  years  and  ages; 

Bid  the  departed,  by  her  power. 
Arise,  and  talk  with  seers  and  sages. 


IfiU 


JAMKS    li.    PKUKIN8. 


[1ICM41 


Hit  word,  to  teach  us,  nuxj  bid  stop 
Tlio  noonday  sun  ;  }'4*a,  she  is  able 

To  inuke  on  oi*ean  of  a  droj>. 

Or  spread  a  kingdom  on  our  table. 

In  her  preat  name  we  need  but  call 

Scott,  Schiller,  Shukspeare,  and, behold! 

The  sufrerinj»  Mary  Muih'S  on  all, 
And  FalstaflT  riots  as  of  old. 

Then,  wherefore  should  we  leave  this  hearth, 
Our  lxM)ks,  and  all  our  ))leasant  labors. 

If  we  can  have  tlu*  whole  round  earth, 
And  still  retain  our  home  and  neighbors? 

Why  wish  to  roam  in  other  huids? 

m 

Or  mourn  that  |)overty  luith  bound  us? 
AVe  have  our  hearts,  our  heads,  our  hands 
Knough  to  live  on, — friends  around  us, — 

And,  more  tlrnn  all,  havi*  lio]ie  and  love, 
Ah,  <Iean*st,  while  thesi*  btst,  be  sure 

Tiiat,  if  there  l)e  a  Oo<l  above, 
We  are  not,  and  cannot  be  \HJor ! 


And  though  the  circle  here  be  small 

Of  heartily  approved  oiiei| 

There  is  a  liome  bejoud  the  skieti 

Where  vice  sliail  sink  and  virtue  iim, 

Till  all  become  the  loved  ooei, 

Love — 
Till  all  become  the  loved 


Then  let  your  eye  be  bughing  ftill, 

And  cloud  l(r5s  be  your  brow ; 
For  in  that  better  world  above, 
0!  many  myriads  sliall  we  love. 
As  one  another  now, 

My  lovi 
As  one  another  now. 


S()N(;. 

Oil !  merrv,  merrv  Im*  the  dav. 

And  bri^iht  the  Mar  «>f  even — 
Knr  'li-*  «>nr  dntv  to  be  ^av. 
And  tre:iil  in  holv   jnv  our  w:iv ; 
(irii'f  never  canie  ttorn  Heaven, 

Mv  love 

It  never  (iinu*  fn >ni  Heaven. 

Th'-n  l«'t  n-*  Hot.  though  w*m*>  iN-tifh'. 

Coiiipiain  of  fitrtuneV  >|i'ite,  lo\e: 
A^  iiH-k-eiieiii'lid  tn-e-*  eoiubihe. 
All  1  iH'ariT  ;rniw,  and  cIom  r  I  wine, 

Sn  111  our  h«'art-  unite, 

Mv  love — 

»So  lei  <Mir  !ieart>  unite. 


ON  TIIK  DKATH  OF  A  VOUSG  CU!LD. 

Stand  back,  uncovered  stand,  for  lo! 

The  |>an'nts  who  have  lost  their  child 
Bow  to  the  niaje>ty  of  woe ! 

He  came,  a  herald  from  above<^ 
I'tip'  fn  )ni  his  God,  he  i*anie  to  them. 

Teaching  new  duties,  dee}ier  love ; 
And,  like  the  iK>y  of  Bethlehem, 

He  <:n'W  in  stature  and  in  grace. 

From  the  >wei*t  spirit  of  his  tace 
They  learned  a  new,  mure  heavenly  joy, 
And  welt*  tlie  better  lor  their  buy. 

But  Ci(m1  hath  taken  whom  he  gave, 
Uecalled  the  nu'>s4*nfrer  he  M*ut; 

And  now  lM««ide  the  iiifant*s  grave 
The  .-pirit  (»f  the  strung  is  bent. 

But  tlioii;;Ii  th«'  tears  must  flow,  the  heait 

Achi'  uith  a  \acanl,  ^t^Ullge  dintrrwj 
Ye  liid  noi  tn>ni  your  intaiit  |iart 

W  lie  1 1  hi«  clear  eye  ;rri*w  meaningloMi 
Tliat  e\e  i>  heaniin;:  Mdl,  and  »tiU 

I  jNiii  hi*  FaiherV  errand  he, 
Voiir  owti  (it  ar.  iiri;:ht.  unearthly  boy, 
Wmk*  th  lilt-  kintj,  niy^ieriou!^  wilL 

Anti  tinni  (lii^  tniiiii  of  bitter  grief 
Will  brin;;  a  *ipani  of  joy  ; — 

O,  mav  ihi*  hf  \our  faith  and  yoar  relief 


JAMES   H.   PERKINS. 


161 


orld  be  full  of  him ;  the  sk j, 
cid  myTiadSy  to  your  eje 
lim ;  the  wind  will  breathe 

ring  in  the  midnight,  they 

1  your  child,  will  hover  nigh, 
m,  behold  him  every  where, 
die  within  you,  earthly  care 
1,  and  heavenward,  side  by 

)eyond  this  realm  of  storms, 
nore  quick,  till,  welcomed 

e, 

eQI  bid  you,  in  the  might  of 

B  weeds  of  earth,  and  wear 
e  forms. 


ICY  FUTURE. 

>'er  the  present  day 
ith  unquestioned  sway ; 
rid  which  is  to  be, 
r  powerless  is  she ! 
od  poverty  their  might, 
3ath,  should  all  unite 
)  the  earth, 

elastic  spirit  rise, 
ind  the  fear  despise, 
nd  the  opening  skies 
'  its  birth, 
t  it  may  be  given, 
itless  hosts  of  heaven, 
bt,  seraphic  band, 
ther*s  throne  to  stand, 
Tier's  face  to  bow, — 
pter  in  my  hand, 
wn  upon  my  brow, 
the  power  may  be, 

gentle  ministry, 
[ring  cease, — 
hades  of  sorrow  flee, 

mourner  peace. 


Or  in  a  wider  sphere  of  good, 
Above  some  universe  of  strife, 
Dove-like,  it  may  be  mine  to  brood, 
And  still  the  chaos  into  life. 

0,  when  I  dwell  on  thoughts  like  these. 
My  spirit  seems  to  hear  the  cry, 
"  Come  up ! " — and,  listening  to  the  call, 
Karth's  dearest  pleasures  quickly  pall ; 
The  scales  from  off  my  vision  fall, 
And  I  could  pray  to  die. 


MARQUETTE.* 


I. 


V 


Sink  to  my  heart,  bright  evening  skies ! 

Ye  waves  tliat  round  me  roll. 
With  all  your  golden,  crimson  dyes, 

Sink  deep  into  my  soul  I 
And  ye,  soft-footed  stars,-— that  come 

So  silently  at  even, 
To  make  this  world  awhile  your  home. 

And  bring  us  nearer  heaven,-— 
Speak  to  my  spirit's  listening  ear 

With  your  calm  tones  of  beauty, 
And  to  my  dariiened  mind  make  clear 

My  errors  and  my  duty. 

n. 

Speak  to  my  soul  of  those  who  went 

Across  this  stormy  lake. 
On  deeds  of  mercy  ever  bent 

For  the  poor  Indian's  sake. 
They  looked  to  all  of  you,  and  each 

Leant  smiling  from  above. 
And  taught  the  Jesuit  how  to  teach 

The  omnipotence  of  love. 
You  gave  the  apostolic  tone 

To  Marquette's  guileless  soul. 
Whose  life  and  labors  shall  be  known 

Long  as  these  waters  rolL 

•  Compoeed  on  Lake  Hiehigun,  by  tlM  rfrcr  where  Mar- 
quette died. 


hi* 


JAMES    H.   PERKIN8. 


[IKfti 


To  him  the  little  Indian  child, 

F(farlt*s9  and  tnistful  came, 
Ciirhcd  for  a  time  hin  temper  wild. 

And  hid  hio  heart  of  flame. 
With  g<*ntle  voice,  and  ^ntle  look, 

Sweet  evening  8tar,  like  thine, 
That  heart  the  missionary  took 

From  off  the  war-god*8  shrine, 
And  laid  it  on  the  Holy  Book, 

Before  tlie  Man  Divine. 
The  bIood-Ktaine<i  demons  saw  with  grief 

Far  from  their  ma^ic  ring. 
Around  their  now  converted  chief, 

The  tribe  come  gatliering. 
BIarquette*rt  belief  was  their  belief, 

And  Jesus  was  their  king. 
Fii'rce  passions'  late  n^sistless  drift 

Drives  now  no  longer  by ; 
*Ti8  rendered  powerless  by  the  gift 

Of  heaven-fed  charity. 

III. 

S|M'ak  to  my  heart,  ye  stars,  and  tell 

How,  on  yon  distant  shore. 
The  world-worn  Jesuit  bade  farewell 

To  those  that  rowed  him  o*er ; 
Told  them  to  sit  and  wait  him  there. 

And  break  their  daily  foo<], 
AMiile  he  to  hb  accustomed  prayer 

Kctircd  within  the  wood ; 
And  how  they  sjiw  i\u'  day  go  round, 

Wondering  he  came  not  yet, 
Then  sought  him  anxiou^^ly,  tmd  fotmd, 

N(»t  thf*  kind,  calm  Man|uette — 
He  silently  had  passed  away — 

But  on  the  gnM>nsward  there, 
IW'fore  the  cruciAx,  his  clay 

Still  kni'cling,  as  in  pniyer. 

IV. 

Ni'P  1ft  nie  a-i  a  fal-lf  di-cm, 

Tm|i1  bv  s/>nH*  artful  knave. 
Tin-  lf;:iiMl,  that  tlir  loiit-ly  stream, 

IJy  whirh  th«»y  <lu«r  his  grave, 
Wlir-n  wiiitVv  turn  •III''  from  al»ovo 

Swept  with  n?^isth.'ss  force. 


Knew  and  revered  the  man  of  kkve. 

And  duinged  its  rapid  courw, 
And  left  the  low,  aepukhml  moniid 

Uninjured  by  its  side. 
And  spared  the  consecrated  gromd 

When*  he  had  knelt  and  died. 
Nor  ever  let  my  weak  mind  rail 

At  the  poor  Imlian, 
Who,  when  the  fierce  north-wwtera  pk 

Swept  oVr  I^ke  Michigan, 
In  the  last  hour  of  deepest  dread 

Knew  of  one  resource  yet, 
And  stilled  the  thund<*r  overhead 

By  calling  on  Marquette ! 

T. 

Sink  to  my  heart,  sweet  evaung  ikiei ! 

Ye  darkening  waves  that  roll 
Around  me, — ^ye  departing  dyeg^    ■ 

Sink  to  mv  inmost  soul ! 
Teach  to  my  heart  of  hearts,  that  fiKl, 

Unknown,  though  known  so  well, 
Tliat  in  each  feeling,  act,  and  thoo^t, 

God  works  by  miracle* 
And  ye,  soft-footed  stars,  that 

So  quietly  at  even, 
Tea(;h  me  to  use  this  world,  mj 

So  as  to  make  it  heaven  I 


TO  A  CHILD. 

My  little  friend,  I  love  to 
Tho«ii»  lines  of  laughter  on  thy 
Which  seems  to  be  the  dwelling^pboe 

Of  all  that's  sweet: 
And  lN*nd  with  pride  to  thy  emlmee 

Whene'er  we  meet. 


Fnr  tl:«»uj:li  the  bcnutv  of  the 

Or  of  the  ^ky  at  sunsf*t  hoar« 

Or  ulun  th«'  t  It  nat'ning  tempests  Ion 

May  1m>  divine. 
Yet  unto  me  but  weak  their  power 

Compared  with  iUm 


JAMES    H.   PERKINS. 


163 


the  ocean  waves,  which  roll 
[uator  to  the  pole, 
of  a  Grod's  control, 

Yet  poor  they  be, 
ir'd  by  the  living  soul 

Which  bums  in  thee. 

inge  cities  we  are  told, 
1  the  dim  days  of  old ; 
>f  ivory  and  gold, 

By  jewels  hid ; 
I  of  gigantic  mould. 

And  pyramid : 

brave  a  hundred  toils 
y  little  ways  and  wiles, 
ly  spirit  in  thy  smiles. 

And  hear  thy  call, 
walk  a  dozen  miles 
To  see  them  alL 

ben  folly  hath  beguiled, 
»,  or  sense  defiled, 
St  me,  my  little  child. 

Fresh  with  my  stain — 
pon  me  thou  bast  smiled, 

Tm  pure  again. 

thee  I  could  be  led 
e's  humblest  walk  to  tread : 
roof,  the  hardest  bed, 
Were  all  Fd  ask ; 
heart  above  my  head 
Should  be  my  task. 

o  me  the  diamond  stone  ? 
le  gem-encircled  zone  ? 
le  harp's  bewitching  tone  ? 

Thine  azure  eye, 
2heek,  and  laugh,  alone. 

Would  satisfy. 

all  fortune  were  denied 
still  against  the  tide, 
•r  any  wealth  beside, 

If  I  could  be 
governor,  and  guide 

Of  one  like  thee. 


THE  VOICE  THAT  BADE  THE  DEAD  ARISE. 

The  voice  that  bade  the  dead  arise. 
And  gave  back  vision  to  the  blind. 

Is  hushed ;  but  when  He  sought  the  skies, 
Our  Master  left  his  Word  behind. 

'Twas  not  to  calm  the  biUows*  roll, 
Twas  not  to  bid  the  hill  be  riven ; 

No  I  'twas  to  liil  the  fainting  soul, 
And  lead  the  erring  back  to  heaven^ — 

To  heave  a  mountain  fix)m  the  heart, 
To  bid  those  inner  springs  be  stirred. 

Lord,  to  thy  servant  here  impart 
The  quickening  wisdom  of  that  Word ! 

Dwell,  Father,  in  this  earthly  fane, 
And,  when  its  feeble  walls  decay, 

Be  with  us  till  we  meet  again 
Amid  thy  halls  of  endless  day. 


HYMN. 

Almightt  Grod !  with  hearts  of  flesh 
Into  thy  presence  we  have  come, 

To  breathe  our  filial  vows  afresh, 

To  make  thy  house  once  more  our  home. 

We  know  that  thou  art  ever  nigh ; 

We  know  that  thoa  art  with  us  here,— 
That  every  action  meets  thine  eye. 

And  every  secret  thought  thine  ear. 

But  grant  us,  Grod,  this  truth  to  feel. 
As  well  as  know ;  grant  us  the  grace, 

Somewhat  as  Adam  knew  thee,  still 
To  know  and  see  thee,  face  to  face. 

Here,  while  we  breathe  again  our  vows, 

Appointing  one  to  minister 
In  holy  things  within  this  house. 

Grant  us  to  feel  that  Thou  art  here. 


HUGH  PETERS. 


L- 


IIl'gu  Peters  was  bom  at  Ilvbroii,  Tolland  county,  Connecticut,  in  Jfliiiiaiy« 
Having  received  a  liberal  education,  he  studied  law,  and  as  soon  Bi  be  had  been 
ted  to  the  bar,  cast  his  fortune  in  Cincinnati.  lie  was  received  with  marked  lokewa 
good-will,  into  the  literary  circles  which  existed  in  that  city  in  1829,  and  becM 
an  admired  writer  for  the  Cincinnati  Chronicle  and  the  IUinoi$  Magaxime, 

On  the  afternoon  of  Saturday,  June  eleventh,  1831,  his  body  was  foand  in  d 
Ohio  River,  near  Lawrenceburg,  Indiana.  lie  was  known  to  have  retired  to  his 
as  usual,  on  Thursday  night.  On  Friday  morning  he  waa  missed,  but  as  he  had 
tied  an  intention  to  go  to  Lawrenceburg,  no  uneasiness  was  felt  until  Sunday  moraiaj 
His  room  was  then  visited,  and  it  was  apparent  to  his  friends  that  no  ordinaxy  dm 
stances  had  called  him  away.  A  messenger  was  immediately  sent  to  LawrmoelMi) 
He  n*tumed  with  the  melancholy  information  that  Mr.  Peters  was  d«ad  and  bnrie 
The  remains  were  disinUrrred  and  removed  to  Cincinnati. 

.  At  a  meeting  of  the  Cincinnati  bar,  hold  June  third,  1831,  at  which  Chariei  Ha 
mond  presidetl,  resolutions,  presented  by  Benjamin  Drake,  expressing  higli  •^■»"— *■ 
for  Mr.  Pet(*rs's  chaiucter  and  talents,  and  deep  regret  tor  his  early  death,  wan  ibh 
iniously  adopted. 

In  the  lUinoiM  Magazine  for  June,  1831,  James  Hall  published  an  obitiiaiy  Bode 
in  which  he  said : 

Ity  Ilia  talents,  st«>rHng  !nt«*grity,  and  »inia)>Io  dt-portmcnt,  he  bad  won  the  c«teea  of  all  wka  k 
th<*  ph'aKurv  of  knowing  him.  It  is  Si'ldoin  the  lot  ul  any  yoang  man  to  liegin  the  wvli  vi 
hriKktcr  prospects  than  thone  which  op^iutl  iN'furo  Mr.  rcUTH :  his  m>Ui1  wurth.  hta  oabkahAi 
churoclLT,  and  inoffeoidTc  manners,  cuuciliutMl  tor  him  thr  coiifldi'iice  uf  the  pabUcv  and  tktlA 
tidii  ot  a  largo  circle  of  friends;  and  it  i^  In.-lievt'd  that  he  hiid  no  «-uemy. 

Th«>  Kucc<iwful  carotT  of  such  a  man.  rti<!ng  fant  into  coinp^'tfnce  and  honor,  by  UiowaBV 
worth  and  honest  exertionH,  Fhtiuld  Ktimulate  the  ambition .  and  HUX'iiKthen  the  virtav,  of  the  yoa^ 
an  it  all'ords  an  honorable  proof  that  there  is  a  )»road  anil  a  bright  path  to  profeflnioDal  wuiBMmn  wtt 
t^i'iiiuH  and  integrity  may  triad,  without  the  aid  of  urtitice,  or  the  iutluence  of  patronage;  «U 
iis  bn'vity  speaks  a  lessou  which  none  ithould  di^ri-};iinl. 

Mr.  Peters's  writings  were  marked  with  ;;o<id  son.«e,  and  correct  taste.  He  p^ 
pn>nli.<^;  of  more  than  ordinary  sunvss  in  both  pn>se  and  poetr}'.  In  criticuni  hewi 
skilUnl,  and  some  of  his  literary  n*views  evimnHl  the  same  quality  which  Mr.  Hi 
notietrs  in  his  eulog}'.  He  wa;)  con.<k.*i«'ntious,  in  a  liij;h  dcj^ree;  and  if  the  pifdi 
merits  of  a  woHl  submitted  to  his  f*xumi nation,  wen;  not  clearly  and  lionestlj  act  iin 
ill  his  remarks,  the  fault  was  with  his  ju(l;nu<'Ut,  aiifi  with  nothing  eL<e. 

His  ^Native  I^and,"  which  was  contributed  to  the  Illinois  Afngazime  in  IBSl,  «i 

•  on  I  pun'  favonibly  with  the  l>i'>t  |)t>enio  of  it^  cIi:iRu-trr  in  the  language.     It  naniadiii 

nf   liyron's  ^(lood  Night,'*  but  bini|ily  thnMi;;h  it.-t  t'xceili*iK*ies ;   it  irresistibly  cri 

Sinllfy  to  mind,  but  only  by  n-asou  of  tli«*  similarity  in  the  truthfulnt'ss  of  the  fn 

phytic  >tniins  which  foretold  or  fure-iudii^ted  the  particular  kind  of  death  wUek 

should  die. 

(  1(^) 


1830-40.] 


HUGH  I^ETEBS. 


165 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

The  boat  swings  from  the  pebblod  shore, 

And  proudly  drives  her  prow ; 
The  crested  waves  roll  up  before : 
Tod  dai^  graj  land,  I  see  no  more-* 

How  sweet  it  seemeth  now ! 
ThoQ  dark  gray  land,  my  Native  Land, 

Thou  land  of  rock  and  pine, 
Fm  speeding  from  thy  golden  sand ; 
Bat  can  I  wave  a  farewell  hand 

To  soch  a  shore  as  thine  ? 

IVe  gazed  upon  the  golden  cloud 

Which  shades  thine  emerald  sod ; 
Thy  hills,  which  Freedom's  share  hath 

plowed, 
Which  nurse  a  race  that  have  not  bowed 

Their  knee  to  aught  but  Gk)d ; 
Thy  mountain  floods,  which  proudly  fling 

Their  waters  to  the  fall — 
Thy  birds,  which  cut  with  rushing  wing 
The  sky  that  greets  thy  coming  Spring, 

And  thought  thy  glories  small ; 

But  now  ye've  shrunk  to  yon  blue  line 

Between  the  sky  and  sea, 
I  feel,  sweet  home,  that  thou  art  mine, 
I  feel  my  bosom  ding  to  thine — 

That  I  am  part  of  thee. 
I  Me  thee  blended  with  the  wave. 

As  children  see  the  earth 
Close  op  a  sainted  mother's  grave ; 
They  weep  for  her  they  cannot  save. 

And  feel  her  holy  worth. 

Thou  mountain  land — thou  land  of  rock, 

Fm  proud  to  call  thee  free ; 
Thy  sons  are  of  the  pilgrim  stock, 
And  nerved  like  those  who  stood  the  shock 

At  old  ThermopylsB. 
The  laurel  wreaths  their  fisithers  won-« 

The  children  wear  them  still — 
Proud  deeds  those  iron  men  have  done! 
They  fought  and  won  at  Bennington, 

And  bled  at  Bunker  HilL 


There's  grandeur  in  the  lightning  stroke 

That  rives  thy  mountain  ash; 
There's  glory  in  thy  giant  oak. 
And  rainbow  beauty  in  the  smoke 

Where  crystal  waters  dash : 
There's  music  in  thy  winter  blast 

That  sweeps  the  hollow  glen ; 
Less  sturdy  sons  would  shrink  aghast 
From  piercing  winds  like  those  thou  hast 

To  nurse  thine  iron  men. 

And  thou  hast  gems ;  aye,  living  pearls ; 

And  flowers  of  £den  hue : 
Thy  loveliest,  are  thy  bright-eyed  girlsi 
Of  fairy  forms  and  elfin  curls, 

And  smiles  like  Hermon's  dew : 
They've  hearts  like  those  they're  bom  to 
wed, 

Too  proud  to  nurse  a  slave ; 
They'd  scorn  to  share  a  monarch's  bed, 
And  sooner  lay  their  angel  head 

Deep  m  their  humble  grave. 

And  I  have  left  thee,  Home,  alone, 

A  pilgrim  from  thy  shore ; 
The  wind  goes  by  with  hollow  moan, 
I  hear  it  sigh  a  warning  tone, 

"  Ye  see  your  home  no  more.** 
Fm  cast  upon  the  world's  wide  sea, 

Tom  like  an  ocean  weed ; 
Fm  cast  away,  far,  far  from  thee, 
I  feel  a  thing  I  cannot  be, 

A  braised  and  broken  reed. 

Farewell,  my  Native  Land,  farewell  I 

That  wave  has  hid  thee  now — 
My  heart  is  bowed  as  with  a  spell. 
This  rending  pang ! — ^would  I  could  tell 

What  ails  my  throbbing  Inrow  I 
One  look  upon  that  fading  streak 

Which  bounds  yon  eastern  sky ; 
One  tear  to  cool  my  burning  cheek ; 
And  then  a  word  I  cannot  speak— 

**  My  Native  Land — Good-by." 


166 


HUGH   PETERS. 


[IM- 


THE  PARTING. 

Their  bark  la  out  upon  the  sea. 

She  leaps  acroiu  tlie  tide : — 
The  flashing  waves  dash  joyously 

Their  spray  upon  her  side : 
As  if  a  bird,  before  the  breeze 

She  spreads  her  snowy  wings, 
And  breaking  through  the  crested  seas, 

Ilow  beautiful  she  springs. 

The  deep  blue  sky  above  her  path 

Is  cloudless,  and  the  air 
That  pure  and  spicy  fragrance  hath 

Which  Ceylon's  breezes  bear — 
And  though  she  seems  a  shadowless 

And  phantom  thing,  in  s|)ort. 
Her  freight  I  ween  is  happiness, 

And  heaven  her  far-off  port 

Mild,  tearful  eyes  are  gazing  now 

Upon  that  fleeting  ship. 
And  here,  perhaps,  an  tk^hy  brow. 

And  there  a  trembling  lip, 
Are  tokens  of  the  agony. 

The  pangs  it  costs  to  sever 
A  mother  from  her  first-bom  child. 

To  say — ^farewell,  forever. 

And  they  who  sail  yon  fading  bark 

Have  turned  a  yearning  eye 
To  the  far  land,  which  seems  a  line 

Between  the  sea  and  sky. 
And  as  that  land  blends  with  the  sea, 

Like  clouds  in  sunset  light, 
A  so  A,  low  voice  breathes  on  the  wind, 

"  My  native  land,  guod-night.** 

And  they  who  stand  upon  the  shore, 

And  bend  them  o*er  tlie  sea. 
To  catch  the  kst,  faint  shadow  of 

The  shrouds*  dim  tracery, — 
I  ween  if  one  could  hear  the  sigh, 

Could  catch  the  moth<T*8  tone, 
llc*d  hear  it  say,  **  Good-night — good- 
night. 

My  beautiful — my  own." 


That  ship  is  gone — ^lost  to  the  eye; 

But  still  a  freshening  brecse 
Is  o'er  her  wake,  and  driTca  her  m 

Through  smooth  and  pletamt  mtL, 
Right  onward,  thus,  ahe  will  dash  oa, 

Though  tempests  shake  the  airv 
For  hearts  that  fear  doc  oceen's  wnd 

I  ween  will  aye  be  there. 
«  «  •  •  • 

That  sea  is  life.    That  baik  »  hoi 

The  hopes  of  wedded  lore : 
The  wind  which  fills  its  awelliiy  mk 

1  trust  is  from  above. 
And  ever  may  its  progress  be 

Through  summer  seas  right  o^ 
Till  blended  with  etemitj'i 

Broad  ocean's  horisoo. 


THE  YANKEE  PEDDLES. 

There  i»,  in  famous  Yankee  bndp 

A  clus:^  of  men,  ycleped  tii 
A  shrt'wd,  sarcastic  band 

Of  busy  miMldlers : 
They    scour    the    country    thro^^  I 

through. 
Vending  thr*ir  wares,  tin  pota,  tin 
Tin  ovens,  dippem,  wash4M>wlBy 
Tin  whistl«*s,  kettles,  or  to  bofl  «v  wswi 
Tin  cullenders,  tin  nutmeg-grateiSi 
Tin  worminpr  platters   for  joor  §tk  I 
tatrrs  I 

In  short. 
If  you  will  look  within 

His  cart, 
And  pize  upon  the  tin 
Which  glitters  there, 
So  bri};ht  and  (air, 
ThereV  no  danger  in  defying 
You  to  go  off  without  buyin§i 


SALMON  P.  CHASE. 


Salmon  Portland  Chase  was  bom  in  the  town  of  Cornish,  New  Hampshire, 
OQ  the  thirteenth  daj  of  January,  in  the  year  1808.  At  the  age  of  seven  years,  on 
the  removal  of  his  father  to  Keene,  he  was  taken  to  that  town  and  placed  at  school. 
At  the  age  of  twelve,  his  father  having  in  the  mean  time  died,  he  sought  the  home  of 
Ms  unde,  Philander  Chase,  then  Bishop  of  Ohio,  at  Worthington,  in  this  State,  and 
under  that  excellent  and  active  man  pursued  his  studies  for  some  time.  Bishop  Chase, 
having  been  elected  to  the  Presidency  of  Cincinnati  College,  removed  to  that  city  for 
the  purpose  of  entering  upon  the  discharge  of  the  responsible  duties  thus  devolved 
upon  him,  taking  his  nephew  with  him.  Salmon  entered  tlie  college  forthwith,  and 
was  soon  raised  to  the  Sophomore  class.  He  continued  at  Cincinnati  only  about  a 
year,  when  he  returned  to  the  home  of  his  mother  in  New  Hampshire,  and  in  1824 
entered  the  Junior  class  of  Dartmouth  College,  where  he  was  graduated  two  years 
after. 

These  several  changes  were  not  the  most  favorable  to  Mr.  Chase's  education,  but 
he  improved  his  opportunities  well,  and  graduated  with  honor.  The  world  was  now 
before  him  where  to  choose,  and  he  was  to  be  the  artificer  of  his  own  fortunes. «  The 
winter  succeeding,  he  went  to  Washington  City,  and,  receiving  good  encouragement, 
opened  a  classical  school  for  boys.  This  school  was  prosperous,  and  he  continued  it 
for  about  three  years,  pursuing,  at  the  same  time,  a  thorough  study  of  the  law,  under 
the  direction  of  the  distinguished  William  Wirt.  Having  been  admitted  to  the  bar  of 
the  District  of  Columbia,  and  closed  his  school  in  lb29,  he  removed  to  Cincinnati  in 
the  spring  of  1830,  and  took  up  his  permanent  residence  in  that  city— engaging  in 
the  practice  of  his  profession. 

Working  in  that  probation  through  which  many  sleep,  Mr.  Chase  soon  made  him- 
self known  as  an  earnest  thinker,  a  good  writer,  and  a  forcible  speaker.  He  was  an 
accepted  contributor  to  the  pages  of  the  North  American  RevieWy  an  occasional  writer 
for  the  Wetiem  Monthly  Magcofine,  and  a  favorite  member  of  the  intellectual  associa- 
tions and  social  circles  of  the  city.  Among  his  contributions  to  the  former  periodical, 
which  was  at  the  time  regarded  as  the  model  American  work  in  its  department,  an 
elaborate  article  on  '^Brougham,"  and  a  dissertation  on  '^Machinery,"  are  remembered 
as  having  been  received  by  the  newspaper  press  and  the  literary  public  with  great 
favor.  At  this  time  he  prepared  an  edition  of  the  Statutes  of  Ohio,  with  copious 
annotations  and  a  preliminary  sketch  of  the  history  of  the  Stiite,  in  three  large  octavo 
volumes.  The  manner  in  which  this  work  was  performed  gave  him  an  inmiediate 
reputation  among  the  members  of  the  bar,  and  secured  him  almost  at  once  a  most 
desirable  position  in  the  active  commercial  community  by  which  he  was  surrounded. 

A  valuable  practice  soon  sought  him  out;   in  1834  he  became  solicitor  of  the  Bank 

(167) 


168  SALMON    P.   CHASE.  [18M-li. 

of  the  United  Statefi  in  Cincinnati,  and  not  long  after  that  amumed  a  like  pontioa  in 
one  of  the  city  banks. 

The  first  im]K>rtant  cai«o  that  brouglit  him  distinctly  and  prominentlj  before  ikt 
public,  outside  of  commercial  practice,  occurred  in  the  year  1837.  This  wai  a  ^fegi- 
tive  slave  caj^e,"  in  wtiich  Mr.  Chuse  acted  as  counsel  for  a  colored  womi 
under  the  law  of  1793.  The  Hoxne  year,  in  an  argument  before  the 
Court  of  Ohio,  in  defense  of  James  G.  Bimey,  prosecuted  onder  a  Stale  lav  far 
harboring  a  negro  slave,  Mr.  Cliasc  so  acquitted  himself  as  to  add  materially  lo  Ui 
already  honorable  reputation,  and  inspire  general  confidence  in  his  leamini^  tkSL 
readiness,  and  power  as  a  jurist.  His  status  at  the  bar  was  now  an  undoabled  eati 
He  took  rank  with  the  oldest  and  ablest  practitioners.  But  the  veiy  leal  with  wUck 
he  entered  into  the  cases  referred  to,  and  others  of  a  kindred  nature  the 
ness  of  his  prej>arution,  and  the  ability  of  his  argument — while  tliey  Axed  hit 
tion  OS  a  lawyer,  and  rapidly  increased  the  business  committed  to  his  charge^  ac  the 
same  time  tended  to  draw  him  aside  from  the  legitimate  and  most  gnccewful  practiBi 
of  his  profession,  and  start  him  in  a  new  and  untried  career. 

The  extension  of  the  anti-slavery  sentiment,  and  his  prominent  eonnectkNi  with  a 
class  of  cases  so  nearly  allied  to  it,  together  with  the  fact  that  this  sentiment  wna  te 
receiving  vitality  in  organ iz4*d  tumis,  gradually  drew  him  into  politics.  Pre 
the  year,  1841,  though  ranking  with  the  young  Whigs  ef  Cincinnati,  and 
them,  he  had  never  token  any  tiling  like  a  prominent  purt  in  their  movementa, 
this  year,  his  anti-slavery  sentiments  having  been  strengthened  bj 
reflection,  and  it  appearing  certain  to  him  tluit  legitimate  aims  which  he 
of  paramount  importance  could  hope  to  be  attained  only  through  the  instnunentalitj 
of  party  organization,  he  united  in  a  call  for  the  State  Liberty  Convention  of  OUo^ 
and  subsi*quently  for  the  National  Liberty  Convention  of  1843,  in  the  prooeedinp  ef 
both  of  which  he  took  a  part  whose  prominence  was  surpassed  by  that  of  no  other  tm^ 

Mr.  Chase's  political  career  was  now  fully  conimeni*ed,  and  has  been  cootinoed  with 
activity  and  ability  ever  since.  He  was  chosen  a  Senator  of  the  United  States  horn 
Ohio  in  the  year  1849,  and  ser\'ed  his  full  term  with  much  distinction.  In  1855  he 
was  elected  Governor  of  Ohio,  and  in  1K57  nM'locted — administering  a&irs  with 
great  ability  and  prudenc<%  and  by  his  wis<iom  and  devotion  to  the  intenssts  of  thf 
State,  commanding  res|)ect  at  home  and  abroad.  In  the  beginning  of  1860  he  «ai 
npiin  elected  to  the  Senate  of  the  Unite<l  States,  in  which  august  body  he  will  be 
I     eiititltMl  to  take  his  seat  on  the  fourth  of  March,  1801. 

Judging  Mr.  ChaseV  future  by  his  past,  that  sertion  of  the  Union  to  which  he  bmnv 
]>articuUirly  belongs,  will  have  cause  to  congratubite  itM'lf  u\wn  his  re-election  lo  the 
Si'nnt(>,  should  it  Ix;  in  the  onler  of  events  that  he  is  then*  to  take  the  oath  of 
Thn)ii;;linut  the  Senatorial  s<»r\ice  which  he  Iiil«  alrt'adv  rendered,  the  motst 
evidence  was  affonlcHl  of  his  attm^hment  to  the  gn*at  and  fnt?  North^West,  whoM 
interest^  h(*  watcheil  over  with  the  most  jfalou-*  eanf.  No  narrow  feelings  of  nctiBi 
ali>m,  however,  (*ontrul  hisaiiions;  and  when  his  n"i|iunsihilities  as  Senator  are  i^ 
newed,  his  vision,  we  are  sati>ti(.*d,  will  have  a  broad  national  si-ope. 


I 


1830-40.]  SALMON   P.    CHASE.  169 

While  a  student  of  law,  and  dnring  the  first  years  of  his  practice  at  the  bar,  history, 
bif^raph J,  mechanics,  politics  and  general  literature,  each  received  a  due  share  of  Mr. 
Chase's  attention.  And  during  the  period  embraced  within  the  first  three  or  four 
years  after  attaining  to  his  majority,  few  men  of  his  years  in  the  country  had  better 
stored  minds,  or  exhibited  more  striking  marks  of  good  mental  discipline.  Though 
his  edocation  had  been  several  times  interrupted,  and  was  at  best,  more  or  less,  piece- 
meal In  its  nature,  yet,  through  a  mind  comprehensive,  discriminating,  and  sufficiently 
retentive,  he  brought  to  whatever  task  he  undertook  the  graces  of  learning  and  the  force 
of  logic,  and  when  he  left  it,  whether  complete  or  incomplete,  the  evidences  were 
abundant  of  keenness  of  insight,  extent  of  view,  thoroughness  of  reflection,  and 
strength  of  reasoning.  The  same  breadth  of  premise,  exactness  of  statement,  logical 
sequence,  completeness  of  consideration,  and  power  of  conclusion,  that  have  since,  in 
a  more  remarimble  degree,  characterized  his  career  as  a  jurist  and  a  statesman,  marked 
all  his  better  efforts  during  the  period  under  view.  In  public  discourses,  newspaper 
writings,  occasional  lectures,  and  contributions  to  periodical  literature — ^in  each  of 
which  departments  he  did  a  few  things  carefully,  and  not  many  things  ^  hastily  and 
with  a  bad  pen'' — these  traits  are  observable. 

During  his  student-life,  Mr.  Chase  often  wooed  the  muses  successfully;  and  from 
among  the  poems  written  by  him  at  this  period,  we  make  some  extracts.  Later  in  life, 
as  a  recreation,  and  from  early  love,  he  has  indulged  in  similar  pastimes ;  and  amid  the 
turbulence  of  politics,  he  oflen  now  flies  for  peaceful  enjoyment  to  the  quiet  of  a 
library  stored  with  the  master  songs  of  the  world,  ancient  and  modem.  Among 
recent  literary  recreations,  in  which  we  have  known  him  to  engage,  is  the  translation  of 
various  specimens  of  the  Latin  poets  into  an  £nglish  form,  which  present  with  strik- 
ing excellence  the  wit  and  beauty  of  the  original.  Though  our  plan  does  not  include 
such  performances  among  the  selections  for  this  volume,  yet  there  is  no  reason 
why  we  should  not  embrace  in  these  preliminary  sketches  an  occasional  translation, 
SQch  as  that  of  the  eleventh  Epigram  of  the  Sixth  Book  of  Martial,  with  which  we 
conclude  this  notice. 

"D?  MARCUM." 

"No  real  fHendBhips  now-n-days,"  you  say : 
**Py lades  and  Orestes,  where  are  they?" 
Alike  Pylades  and  Orestes  fared  ; 
The  bread  and  thrush  of  each  the  other  shared ; 
Both  drank  from  the  same  bottle  ;  both  partook 
The  self-same  supper  from  the  self-same  cook. 
You  feast  on  Lucrines ;  me  Peloris  feeds ; 
In  daintiness  your  taste  not  mine  exceeds. 
Cadmean  Tyre  clothes  you ;  coarse  Gallia  me ; 
How  loved  by  sackcloth  can  rich  purples  be? 
Who  wants  in  me  Pylades,  Mark  I  must  prove 
To  me  Orestes : — who  wants  love,  must  love. 

Non. — Luerinfs;  the  flncei  ojaton  were  taken  from  the  Luerine  Lake.  Peloris, •  a  Sicilian  promontory  near 
which  •bell-ilah  of  inferior  qoalitj  but  large  fiie  were  taken.  Cadmean  Tyre ;  Tyre,  named  from  Cadmus  a  Phoeni- 
eian,  celebrated  for  purples.  Gnlliai  whence  were  brought  ooane  woolen  cloth  ft>r  eerrante*  wear,  bj  a  permitsibla 
liceom,  pcrhapa.  called  saekdoth. 


170 


SALMON    P.   CHASE. 


[U3».4l 


THE  SISTERS.* 

It  wa.4  an  cvc  of  summer.    The  bright  sun 
Witli  all  his  flood  of  glor)-,  like  a  king 
AVitb  ]>omp  of  unfurled  banners,  hod  gone 

dow  n. 
A  single  cloud,  in  which  all  rays  that  light 
The  diamond,  opal,  and  the  chr}'fK>lite, 
Mrt  in  tlirir  mingled  brightness,  hung  above 
The  place  of  his  dejmrture.     Over  that 
lioM*  pile  on  pile  of  gorg(H>us  clouds,  a  wall 
"With  tower  and  battlement,  uplitled  high, — 
Grandly  magnificent,  as  if  to  mock 
The  show  of  glory  earth  sometimes  puts  on. 
The  zephyrs  were  abroad  among  the  flowers, 
Filling  the  air  with  fragnmce,  while  around, 
From  silver  rills,  and  frum  the  breezy  trees, 
And  from  earth's  thou>uJid  founts  of  luir- 

inony. 
Came  gushes  of  sweet  sound.     On  such  an 

eve, 
I  saw,  upon  the  bank  of  a  small  stream, 
"Whose  waters  glowed  with  the  rich,  golden 

light. 
That,  like  a  mantle  wrought  by  angel  hands, 
Covenrd  the  world  with  beauty,  two,  who 

seemed 
Kather  the  habitants  of  some  pure  star. 
Than  flwellers  of  this  earth.     They  were 

lM>th  young 
And    lovely,  but  unlike;   as    two    sweet 

flowi-rs 
Arc  M»mrtimes  seen,  Intth  exquisitely  fair. 
Though  clothed  with  ditferent  hues.     The 

one  went  by 
With  a  light,  fawn-like  step,  that  scarcely 

cni.-hed 
The  springing  flower  lK>neath  it.     Life  ha«l 

To  Iht  a   jwet's  dream,  where  all  things 

bright 
And  bfaiiiifiil  com^entenil,  like  the  rars 
That,  mingling,  form  th«*  sunbeam ;  and  the 

earth 


•  loM^nbeil  ki  K  U.  W.  and  V.  U.  W. 


Was  lovely  still,  as  in  the  olden  time. 

When,  at  this  hour,  celestial  spiriu 

To  admire  her  viipn  bcautie«y  and  aduft 

The  great  Creator,  manifested  beat 

By  works  which  he  hath  wroughL    Ba 

countenance 
Wa<  nidiant  with  joy,  though  shaded  oft 
By  her  dark  tresse.s  as  the  wanton  brce» 
Played  s]>ortively  among  her  locks  of  jeL 
She  was  not  very  beautiful ;  and  yet 
There  was  that  in  her  dark,  bright,  jojav 

And  in  the  expression  of  her  speaking  &ee, 
Where,  'mid  the  graces,  dwelt  perpccaal 

smiles. 
As  sunshine  dwells  upon  the  summer  waic, 
Clianging  forever,  yet  forever  bright — 
With   the   sweet   frankness  of   ^***^frF*g 

youth. 
And  the  pun*  light  that  evennorc  ponnool 
From  the  mind'»  fountain — that  A'WfiMJwJ 

more 
Than  the  cold  name  of  beauty,  which  nsj 

be 
The  attribute  of  beings  whom  no  rmj 
Of  intellect  illumines,  and  no  chann 
( >f  loveliness  invests.     The  other^s  step 
Wa>  not  >o  buoyant*  and  her  eye  bad  Im 
Of  mirth  and  gladness  in  it,  and  her  check 
Was  something  paler;    but  when   geaijf 

airs 
Parted  thf  tn^^ses  that  hung  oVr  her  biov. 
It  was  li'i  when  light  suddenly  breaks  Ibnk 
Fn)m  rifted  clouds  in  April.     She  was  one 
F<»r  whom  a  life  were  a  small  8acri6ee, 
Aye.  to  l>e  de«'med  as  nothing!     Pcuivt 

gr.uM» 
Was  in  her  everv  motion,  and  her  look 
IIiul  somt'thing  Mu*re<i  in  it  that  devlarBd 
Hnw  pnrn  the  spirit  in  that  form  enshrinrl 
Like  light  tluit  dwelleth  in  the  dianoai 

g«-m. 
Thou  lov«'1v  one !  mav  life  still  he  fi^r  thet 
A  {M*a«*(*fiil  voyag«*  o*er  a  summer  s««« 
By  giMith*  piles  altriichil ;  and  at  length 
Purified  Hhnlly  from  ihe  primal  laint. 


t 


I 


1830-40.] 


SALMON   P.   CHASE. 


171 


That  still  attends  earth's  loveliest,  enter 
thou 

The  port  of  peace  eternal ! 

They  passed  on — 

Sach  visions  never  last — and,  raj  bj  ray, 

From  earth  and  skj  and  from  the  spark- 
ling wave 

The  glory  all  departed.    Even  so, 

I  thought — and  with  the  thought  a  heavy 
sigh 

Came  from  my  inmost  heart — ^must  fade 
away 

All  that  the  earth  of  beautiful  inherits. 

And  so  must  these  bright  creatures  pass 
from  earth. 

Leaving  behind,  to  tell  that  they  have  been, 

Naught  but  the  memory  of  their  loveliness, 

Like  fragrance  lingering  still  around  the 
spot 

Where  late  the  rose  was  blooming. 


TO  A  STAR. 

Mournful  thy  beam,  pale  star ! 

Shining  a&r  with  solitary  light, 
TboQgh  hosts  around  thee  are, 

Decking  the  bosom  of  the  blue  midnight 

1  would  not  be  as  thou ! 
Cat  off  from  all  communion  with  my 
kind. 
Though  round  me  might  blaze  now 
The  light  and  glory  in  which  thou  art 
shrin'd. 

Eor  thou  art  all  alone  ! 

Companionless  in  thine  afar  career — 
While  silently  rolls  on, 

In  paths  of  living  light,  each  radiant 
sphere. 

Thy  goings  forth  have  been, 
In  thy  bright  beauty,  since  that  elder 
time. 


When,  undefiled  by  sin, 

Earth  too  was  lovely  in  her  being's  prime. 

And  still  thou  art  the  same ! 

As  beautiful  and  fair  as  then  thou  wert ; 
As  if  thy  virgin  flame 

Had  power  Time's  wasting  influence  to 
avert 

Shine  on  awhile,  thou  star ! 

Yet  shall  thy  brightness  fade  in  endless 
night ; 
Roll  on  thy  diamond  car ! 

Yet  soon  thy  fiery  track  will  not  be 
bright. 

Then  shall  a  star  arise  ! 

A  star  far  lovelier  than  night's  brightest 
gem. 
To  shine  in  purer  skies, — 

The  fadeless,  glorious  star  of  Bethlehem! 


THEMES. 


Lightly  that  feather  floats  upon  the  wind ! 
Yet  in  the  eternal  balance  mightiest  deeds 
Of  mightiest  men  are  lighter ! 


Yes :  Plutus  is  the  god  of  little  souls, 
Who,  in  his  dark  caves  searching,  may  em- 
ploy 
Eyes  which  the  sun  had  blinded ! 


How  ofl  does  seeming  worth,  that  thorn- 
less  rose. 

Shoot  out,  when  by  Affection  nurtured, 

The  rough  thorns  of  Ingratitude,  and 
wound 

The  gentle  hand  that  tends  it 


How  shifls  the  varying  scene!   The  great, 

to-day, 
Are  by  the  turn  of  fickle  Fortune's  wheel 
To-morrow  mingled  with  the  general  mass. 


WILLIAM  0.  BUTLER. 


WiLLLLx  Orlando  Butler,  son  of  Fercival  BuUer,  who  wm  an  Ai 
Greneral  in  the  American  Annj  in  the  War  of  1812,  was  bom  in  Jetmnine  i 
Kentucky,  in  1793.  The  profession  of  law  was  selected  for  William  bj  hia 
and  he  was  about  to  devote  himself  to  it,  when  the  war  of  1818  broke  oot.  ] 
listed  as  a  private  soldier  in  Captain  Hart's  company  of  Kentucky  Tolantae 
on  the  march  to  the  North-western  frontier  was  elected  CorporaL  Soon  aAi 
election  he  was  appointed  Ensign  in  the  Seventeenth  Regiment  of  United  Sla 
.fiuitry.  He  distinguished  himself  in  several  skirmishes.  At  the  battle  of 
Raisin,  January  twenty-second,  1818,  he  was  among  the  few  wounded  who  c 
massacre  by  the  Indians.  Taken  prisoner  by  the  British,  he  was  marched  tl 
Canada  to  Fort  Niagara.  In  a  biographical  notice  of  Mr.  Butler,  Franda  F 
has  given  some  account  of  his  Ufe  as  a  prisoner  of  war,  from  which  we  quote: 

Then  his  mind  wuidercd  back  to  the  last  night  scene  which  he  ranreyed  on  the  bloody  i 
Raisin.  He  gave  ap  the  heroic  part,  and  became  a  Khool-boy  a^aln,  aad  eommfmanktd 
rows  for  his  lost  fricDds  in  vursc,  like  some  paaaionate,  heari-hrokcn  lover.  Then  elmlae 
were  never  intended  Tor  the  eye  of  any  but  matual  friends,  whose  sympathies,  like  his  own, 
out  tears  with  their  plaints  over  the  dead.  We  g^vc  some  of  thene  lines  of  boyhood  lo  A 
the  heroic  youth  had  a  bosom  not  less  kind  than  brave.  They  are  introductory  to  what  Bii 
sidered  a  succession  of  epitaphs  on  the  fHends  whose  bodies  the  yoong  aokUer  fooad  oa  tl 


THi  nxLD  or  RAisnr. 


Vain  hope,  awmy ! 

H«r  warrior*!  dylos  vMi  i 

TIm  pMniiif  »plijr 

No  woandMl  warrior  mmU  lh«  ( 

]>Mtli  U  hb  Omp  hf  Iria'i 

Of  Rabin's  f  now  w«  heap  hb  gimw ! 

llow  many  boprt  Ua  ■miilwai  Imi^* 

The  moUMT's  Joj,  Iha  mtm^  ptl*i, 
Tha  coantiy's  boaiC,  Iba  tmmmm^  ftar, 

In  wlklrr'd  havoc,  ■Ma  by  ridt. 
Lmd  OM,  thou  filcat  qi 
Uq4  ma  awbUa  thy 
That  I  may  aw  each  well-lofad 
That  tank  bMMath  Iha 


Tha  battta*t  o'er!  tha  dia  If  paat ; 
Nlght*f  maatla  on  tha  Said  b  caai ; 
Tha  Indian  yell  ii  heard  no  more ; 
Tha  dlence  brooda  o'er  Biie^  fhora. 
At  thlf  kma  honr  I  go  to  tread 
Tha  fleld  wham  ralor  Talnly  bled— 
To  raiee  tha  wounded  warrlor'f  creet, 
Or  warm  with  imn  hU  ley  \mmai^ 
To  treaeare  np  hla  lant  command, 
And  bear  It  to  hie  natWe  land. 
It  may  oaa  polaa  of  Joy  Impart 
To  a  Ibad  mother'*  bieadlnn  heart ; 
Or  fbr  a  moment  It  may  dry 
The  taar-drop  la  tha  widow*!  eye. 

Immediately  after  an  excliange  of  prisoners  ha<l  hoen  mado,  bj  which  Mr. 
was  permitted  to  return  from  Canada,  he  was  promoted  to  a  Oaptaincj.  i 
twenty-third  of  December,  1814,  he  was  brevette<l  Major  for  conspicooiu  aerr 
the  battles  at  Pensaeola  and  New  Orleans.  He  was  aid-de-camp  to  Genera 
son,  from  June  seventeenth,  1816,  to  May  thirty-first,  1817.  He  then  tendei 
n'si(;;nation,  and  for  the  next  twenty-five  years  di'voted  himself  to  the  prai 
the  law  in  Kentucky,  residing  on  a  patrimonial  estate,  near  the  fi?"flttwifi> 
Kentucky  and  Ohio  nvers. 

From  1839  to  1843,  Mr.  Butler  was  a  Representative  in  Congreat.    In  If 

1172) 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    O.   BUTLEB. 


173 


was  the  candidate  of  the  Democratic  party  for  the  office  of  Governor  of  Kentucky, 
bat  was  defeated  by  the  influence  of  Henry  Clay.  When  the  war  with  Mexico 
broke  out,  he  tendered  his  services  to  the  Grovemment,  and  was  created  Major  Gen- 
eraL  He  led  the  daring  charge  at  Monterey,  and  on  the  second  of  March,  1847,  was 
presented  a  sword  by  resolution  of  Congress.  In  February,  1848,  he  succeeded 
General  Soott  in  command  of  the  American  forces  in  Mexico.  His  military  admin- 
istration in  that  country  was  concluded  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  May,  1848,  when  he 
announced  the  ratification  of  the  treaty  of  peace.  Afler  his  return  to  the  United 
States,  he  was  nominated  by  the  Democratic  party  as  a  candidate  for  the  office  of 
Vice  President,  on  a  ticket,  with  Lewis  Cass  for  the  Chief  Magistracy,  which  was 
defeated  by  the  election  of  Zachary  Taylor  and  Millard  Fillmore. 

In  early  life  Mr.  Butler  wrote  several  poems  of  merit,  but  the  only  one  generally 
known  is  the  ^  Boatman's  Horn,"  first  published  about  the  year  1835. 


THE  BOATMAN'S  HORN. 

0,  BOATKAH I  wind  that  hom  again, 

For  never  did  the  list'oing  air 

Upon  its  lambent  bosom  bear 
So  wild,  so  soil,  so  sweet  a  strain ! 
What  though  thy  notes  are  sad  and  few, 

By  every  simple  boatman  blown, 
Tet  is  each  pulse  to  nature  true. 

And  melody  in  every  tone. 
How  oft,  in  boyhood's  joyous  day. 

Unmindful  of  the  lapsing  hours, 
Pve  loitered  on  my  homeward  way 

By  wild  Ohio's  bank  of  flowers ; 
While  some  lone  boatman  from  the  deck 

Poured  his  soft  numbers  to  that  tide. 
As  if  to  charm  from  storm  and  wreck 

The  boat  where  all  his  fortunes  ride ! 
Delighted  Nature  drank  the  sound. 
Enchanted,  Echo  bore  it  round 
In  whispers  soft  and  softer  still, 
Fn»n  hill  to  plain  and  plain  to  hill, 
Till  e'en  the  thoughtless  frolic  boy, 
Elate  with  hope  and  wild  with  joy. 
Who  gamboled  by  the  river's  side. 
And  sported  with  the  fretting  tide, 
Feels  something  new  pervade  his  breast, 
Change  his  light  steps,  repress  his  jest, 


Bends  o'er  the  flood  his  eager  ear 
To  catch  the  sounds  far  off*,  yet  deai 
Drinks  the  sweet  draught,  but  knows  not 

why 
The  tear  of  rapture  fills  his  eye. 
And  can  he  now,  to  manhood  grown. 
Tell  why  those  notes,  simple  and  lone, 
As  on  the  ravished  ear  they  fell. 
Bind  every  sense  in  magic  spell  ? 
There  is  a  tide  of  feeling  given 
To  all  on  earth,  its  fountain  heaven, 
Beginning  with  the  dewy  flower, 
Just  ope'd  in  Flora's  vernal  bower — 
Rising  creation's  orders  through. 
With  louder  murmur,  brighter  hue — 
That  tide  is  sympathy !  its  ebb  and  flow 
Give  life  its  hues,  its  joy  and  woe. 
Music,  the  master-spirit  that  can  move 
Its  waves  to  war,  or  lull  them  into  love — 
Can  cheer  the  sinking  sailor  mid  the  wave, 
And  bid  the  warrior  on  I  nor  fear  the  grave, 
Inspire  the  fainting  pilgrim  on  his  road. 
And  elevate  his  soul  to  claim  his  God. 
Then,  boatman,  wind  that  hom  again  I 
Though  much  of  sorrow  mark  its  strain. 
Yet  are  its  notes  to  sorrow  dear ; 
What  though  they  wake  fond  memory's  tear ! 
Tears  are  sad  memory's  sacred  feast, 
And  rapturo  oft  her  chosen  guest 


THOMAS   H.  SHREVE. 


PcLXOXART  (lisea^,  which  for  a  period  of  aboat  three  jean  had  afflided 
11.  Slirevo,  terminated  in  hin  death  on  the  morning  of  December  twenCj-lkiri, 
18r>3.  To  Mr.  Slireve's  numerous  pergonal  friendis  who  had  kmg  been  aware  of  ife 
M'vere  and  dangerous  nature  of  his  disease,  this  intelligence  did  not  oone  oaei- 
IHH'tedljr,  but  to  every  one  of  them  it  was  accompanied  by  a  pang  such  ai  thej  do 
oAon  ex|>erience.  Beyond  the  circle  of  attached  friends,  there  were  in  different 
of  the  Union,  but  more  especially  in  the  north-eastern  sections  of  the 
Valley,  thousands  who  had  never  seen  the  deceased,  who  yet  sincerely  '■"^f—t4  kb 
losK,  for  through  a  period  of  twenty  years  they  had  known  him  as  a  jounalMt  of 
brilliant  talent,  and  rare  powers  ot*  pleasing  and  instructing. 

Tliomas  II.  Siirevo  was  bom  in  the  city  of  Alexandria,  District  of  Colanihia»  m 
the  year  1808.  In  the  schools  of  that  phice  he  laid  the  foundations  of  a  good 
academical  education,  u|)on  wliich  he  built  through  many  years  of  dooe 
and  thoughtful  study.  There,  and  at  Trenton,  New  Jersey,  he  was  bred  to  the 
ness  of  merehandise,  which  at  a  later  ]M*riod  of  his  life  he  pursued  for  a  few  ywa  ia 
Louisville,  Kentucky.  About  the  year  1830,  lie  n -moved  to  Cincinnati,  whither  bh 
father  and  sisters  liad  preceded  him.  In  the  year  1834,  by  porehase,  he 
himself  with  the  publishing  and  editorial  depart  mentis  of  the  (Xneiimaii  Mi 
weekly  literary  paper,  at  that  time  of  estjil>lished  character  and  wide 
but  which  immediately  and  greatly  improved,  in  all  respects,  under  his  joint 


agt'mcnt. 


In  the  year  1838,  the  Mirror  having  sometime  before  passed  from  the  hands  of 
Mr.  Shreve  and  his  associates,  he  removed  to  Louisville,  where  he  became  a  meaber 
of  the  extensive  dry-goods  jobbing  house  of  Joshua  I^  Bowles  &  Co.,  with  which  he  ■ 
rrmaiiietl  c*onnected  till  the  retirement  of  Mr.  BuwIim  and  the  close  of  the 
Subs4u|uent  to  this,  he  was  for  a  couple  of  years  one  of  the  partners  in  an 
wan*house  in  Louisville.  i 

While  connected  with  the  Cinnnnnti  Mirror^  and  while  a  member  of  the  fim  sf   ! 
IU)wl«*s  &  Co.,  Mr.  Shreve  phmIucihI  many  papers  of  rare  exc<'llenre,  in  difleientdfr*  ' 
partments  of  liteniture.     They  wen*  pul>Ii:*Iied  in  the  ('tnnnn(tti  Mirror^  tlie  KnA  \ 
erf  Marker  of  Nt»w  Yc»rk,  th<»  Iffisft^rian,  tlu*  JIV*/*t/i  Mnnthhf  Mngazine^  and  tlie 
riUf  Jotirtitil^  and  iiipuMl  into  the  daily  and  Wftkly  [trfr^^  thmughout  the 
r-taMi'-Iiing  his  n*putation  as  <in<>  of  tlic  Imm  of  our  yi)iin;;«T  writers.  East  or  Weit 
Piirin^  the  s;inie  lime  he  niailt>  >uiiilry  ]ii>l*Iie  adih'f''"'!"'.  on  themes  of 


interest  ami  value,  wltieh  >h«>\Vfd  an  abundant  eupaeity  and  intelligence  to  instradi   . 


as    Wfll  :l<^  to  please*. 

I)iMTiiiiinatiii<r  jud^rment  had  lon^  n't'(»<nii/.i>d  in  hitn  one  who  had  lare  powen  ftr 
the  work  of  jounialisni,  and  when  he  retin*«l  from  m«*n'hantli!iing,  he  was  al 

(  1:4  ) 


18-;«)-40.]  THOMAS    H.    SHREVE.  176 

cored  bj  the  publishers  of  the  LouisvtUe  Journal  as  on  assistant  in  the  editorial 
department  of  that  paper.  In  this  employment  he  continued  till  the  day  of  his  death 
^-dictating  to  an  amanuensis  months  afler  the  inroads  of  disease  had  so  shattered  his 
physical  constitution  that  he  could  no  longer  guide  the  pen  that  traced  his  quickly- 
flowing  thoughts.  For  the  rough-and-tumble  of  political  editorship  he  had  but  little 
taste,  and  he  labored  in  that  department  of  the  paper  only  temporarily  during  the 
occasional  absence  of  his  able  and  dextrous  senior.  He  liked  as  little  the  drudgery 
of  clipping  and  paragraphing — to  which  he  was  subjected  only  at  times  of  similar 
necessity.  He  was,  more  especially  than  any  thing  else,  an  essayist,  and  to  the  well- 
weighed  thoughts  and  polished  style  of  the  ^  leaders  "  which  he  furnished  every  week, 
and  sometimes  every  day,  was  the  LomsviRe  Journal  indebted  for  much  of  the  high 
respect  entertained  for  it  among  thoughtful  and  scholarly  minds.* 

Some  of  Mr.  Shreve's  poetical  compositions  have  been  widely  and  justly  admired. 
Unlike  most  young  men,  when  they  engage  in  metrical  writing,  he  was  as  joyous  in 
his  Terse  as  the  lark  soaring  in  the  early  mom  and  singing  at  heaven's  gate.  As  an 
amateur  artist  also  he  had  decided  and  high  excellences,  and  he  left  portraits,  land- 
scapes, and  paintings  in  animal  life,  which  demonstrate  his  powers  in  this  department 
of  intellectual  effort  He  had  likewise  a  mathematical  and  legal  mind ;  and  had  he 
given  his  days  and  nights  as  sedulously  to  either  astronomy  or  law  as  he  gave  them 
to  belles-lettres  and  the  social  circle,  he  would  have  ranked  with  the  best  of  his 
ootemporaries.  His  ambition,  however,  was  almost  exclusively  literary,  and  the 
theater  of  perhaps  his  best  exploits  was  the  club-room,  where  he  had  few  equals  in 
the  cities  of  his  residence. 

No  man  had  stronger  attachments  to  his  friends  than  Thomas  H.  Shreve,  and  no 
man's  friends  have  been  more  devoted  than  his  to  the  object  of  their  regard.  This 
was  the  double  result  of  his  truthful  and  manly  nature,  which  presented  Imn  at  all 

*  On  th*  morning  after  hb  death,  a  toaehing  article  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Prentice  appeared  in  the  Jomrud—ttoui 
vhkh  the  ft»Uowlng  ii  •n  eztrmot : 

**  Mr.  Shierre's  ahilltlee  were  of  a  high  order.  A»  a  writer,  he  ma  much  diiitinguished  before  his  connection  with 
the  LovuvUte  Jounud,  and  hii  pen  eontribated  mneh  Taloable  matter  to  thi«  paper.  His  taete  was  pore,  tiis  humor 
was  rich  and  exuberant,  and  he  cotild,  when  he  pleased,  write  with  extraordinary  Tebemence,  eloquence,  and  pathoe. 
ffia  mind  wae  richly  stored  with  knowledge,  and  he  could  always  use  that  knowledge  with  wonderful  Ikdlity.  The 
eooditlea  of  his  health  was  such  for  the  last  two  or  three  years  that  he  wrote  Tery  little  during  that  time,  but  he  has 
kit  behind  him  some  productions  which  we  trust  that  our  generation  will  not  permit  to  be  forgotten. 

**  To>morrow  the  lamented  ShreTc  will  be  laid  in  bis  grave  amid  the  tears  and  sobs  and  lamentations  of  relatires 
and  friends,  but  his  memory,  unburied  in  the  earth,  will  remain  a  cherished  and  beautify  and  holy  thing  in  the 
souls  of  hundreds.  When  such  a  man  passes  away,  be  leaves  the  earth  lone  and  desolate  to  those  who  knew  and 
loved  him,  bat  lieaven  becomes  brighter  to  them  than  before.  A  dark  and  chilling  shadow  stretches  frtnn  his  tomb, 
and  seems  to  envelop  the  heart  and  the  whole  world  of  nature  with  its  cold  gloom,  but  when  the  eye  of  the 
spirit  looks  upward  and  pursues  him  in  his  radiant  and  starry  flight,  the  gloom  vanishes,  and  all  is  eternal  beauty 

and  glory. 

"  We,  the  surviving  editor  of  the  Journal^  feel  that  the  prime  of  our  life  is  scarcely  yet  gone ;  yet,  as  we  look  back 
upon  our  long  career  in  this  city,  we  seem  to  behold,  near  and  &r,  only  the  graves  of  the  prized  and  the  loRt.  All  the 
numerous  journeymen  and  apprentices  that  were  in  our  employ  when  we  first  commenced  publishing  our  paper  are 
dead ;  our  first  partner,  our  second  partner,  and  our  third  partner  are  dead,  and  our  first  a(«ii$tant  and  our  last 
sstdftant  are  alfo  dead.  When  these  memories  come  over  us,  we  feel  like  one  alone  at  midnight  in  the  mid«t  of  a 
diurchyard,  wiUi  the  winds  sighing  mournfully  around  him  through  the  broken  tombs,  and  the  voices  of  the  ghosts 
of  departed  joys  sounding  dolefully  in  his  ears.  Our  prayer  to  God  is  that  such  memories  may  have  a  chastening 
and  purifying  and  elevating  Influence  upon  us  and  fit  us  to  discharge,  better  than  we  have  ever  yet  done,  our  duties 
to  earth  and  to  heaven." 


ITti  THOMAS    II.   8HUEVK.  [lA3<^-fcL 

times,  and  unrler  all  circumstances,  as  one  to  be  relied  upon^-the  aame  hi  joj  ur  m 
sorrow,  in  weal  or  in  woe,  in  adversity  or  prosperity,  in  life  or  in  death.  1I«  soonn^ 
a  meannetis  with  the  same  heartiness  that  he  admired  a  noble  acL  He  made  no  eoo- 
cessioas  to  wrong,  and  bestowed  apphiuse  in  no  stinted  words  upon  the  righL  Fran  ha 
earliest  life  he  abhorred  all  doctrines  of  expediency  in  matters  of  moral  inpoit,  aai 
was  unrelenting  in  his  hostility  to  all  arguments  drawn  from  them.  He  stood  upright 
In 'tore  his  God,  and  his  feUow-man,  and  no  a)mpromises  with  falsehood  or  errar  vcfc 
able  to  push  him  from  his  pUice.  Wliat,  after  diligent  inquiry  and  the  exercise  of  the 
l)est  powers  of  his  mind,  he  believed  to  be  rights  was  right  to  him,  and  by  it  he  wwU 
stand  or  fall. 

These  earnest  words  in  his  praise  are  spoken  by  one  who  knew  him  in  joung  Bin- 
hocxl  and  mature  lite  as  no  other  man  living  knew  him*  We  were  through  nanj 
years  his  associate  in  active  business,  in  editorial  empluyments,  in  literary  punHiiti.  in 
the  schemes  of  youth  that  are  but  bubbles,  and  in  tlie  lio|ies  of  manhood  thai  ton  to 
dust  and  ashes  U|K>n  the  heart. 

In  his  n'ligious  views,  Mr.  Slirevc  was  a  Quaker.  This  was  the  educatioo  of  hb 
childhofxi,  and  his  matured  faculties  indorsed  it  as  correct.  The  sincerity  of  hit  heart 
bore  testimony  to  its  truthtiilMrs.s  and  the  simplicity  of  his  manners  and  hahitt 
accorded  with  its  precepts  and  ex:unples.  Some  of  the  htrongest  articksa  that  caflK  j 
trum  his  hand,  in  his  lat4T  vears,  were  vindications  of  William  Penn  from  the  aiper  i 
sions  of  the  historian  Macaulay. 
I  Mr.  Shreve*s  keenest  regrets,  aside  fmm  iUa*e  connected  with  his  separalioo  tor  al 
time  i'roni  his  wife,  children,  niid  Iriends,  W(>rc  that  he  had  accomplUhed  io  litlle  ii 
his  tuvurite  pursuit  of  litenitun*.  Little  he  had  done,  indei'd,  compared  with  what  hf 
luid  designed  and  would  have  achieved  had  a  few  mon'  yeiu^  been  permitted  him  ii 
this  life :  but  should  a  collection  U*  miule  of  wliat  he  has  written,  as  we  eameillf 
iiojN'  it  may,  and  a  careful  s(*lertion  be  taken  from  it.  it  will  l)e  found  that  he 


pli>hi*d  much  more  than  has  been  done  by  many  a  one  who  Ims  rested  from  hia  fadxn   : 
and  Ih'cii  content. 


In  ]^(.')l,  '*  Dniyton,  an  Amorinm  Tale,"  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Shreve,  wai  po^ 
HsIumI  by  IlaqKT  ami  Un>thiTs,  New  York.  It  was  t'uvorably  reviewed  in  seveialof 
the  leadini;  magazines  and  n('w>paiHTs  of  the  Ka->t  as  wfU  a**  of  the  West.     Its  plot 

j  is  of  nion*  than  common  interest,  and  many  of  its  pa;r<"^  c«»ntain  anlmirable  example*  ' 
of  cliar.i(*ter  paiiitin;r<  The  hero  is  a  fair  n>pn>i'Miativi'  of  American  ener^gr  wui  I 
in<h*|>«'fidt'n«*<f.  lit*  {uisse>  tnun  the  sluN'maker's  U^nrh  to  a  |Nwiiion  of  lionor  and  ia- 
tlueiice  hi  the  le;!al  pn»tes«ioii.  illii^tRiting  in  hi->  eareer.  >tiidy  and  industry  well  cat 

i     culati-il  to  elevate  and  impmve  young  men  wlio  an*  denied  the  advantages  of  edneaiioa 

and  fainilv  inthienee.  I 

I         AImhii    timneen    vear*   befure   his   death,   Mr.   Slin-ve  marriiNl   Ortavia  BoDiit,   , 

I  .  '  .      .  .  .  I 

daii'jliter  of  tlie   hite   Heiijriinin    Hullitt,  tor  nianv  v«  ar-  an  intluential  citiien  of 

Loni'iMiia.     S!r«*  survived  liirn,  and  partner^^  in  I>«t  liitter  bereavement  were  ihivt 

daughter^ — all  the  cliildren  that  wi-re  liom  to  them. 


1830-4a] 


THOMAS   H.    SHREVE. 


177 


I  HAVE  NO  WIFR 

I HAYB  no  wife — and  I  can  go 

Just  where  I  please,  and  feel  as  free 
As  crazy  winds  which  choose  to  blow 

Bonnd  mountain-tops  their  melody. 
On  those  who  have  Love's  race  to  run, 

Hope,  like  a  seraph,  smiles  most  sweet — 
But  they  who  Hymen's  goal  have  won. 

Sometimes,  'tis  said,  find  Hope  a  cheat 

I  have  no  wife — ^young  girls  are  fair- 
But  how  it  is,  I  cannot  tell, 

No  sooner  are  they  wed,  than  their 
Enchantments  give  them  the  farewell. 

The  girls,  oh,  bless  them !  make  us  yearn 
To  risk  all  odds  and  take  a  wife — 

To  cling  to  one,  and  not  to  turn 
Ten  thousand  in  the  dance  of  life. 

I  have  no  wife : — ^Who'd  have  his  nose 

Forever  tied  to  one  lone  flower,    . 
E'en  if  that  flower  should  be  a  rose, 

Plucked  with  light  hand  from  fairy  bower  ? 
Oh !  better  &r  the  bright  bouquet 

Of  flowers  of  every  hue  and  clime ; 
By  turns  to  charm  the  sense  away. 

And  fill  the  heart  with  dreams  sublime. 

1  have  no  wife : — I  now  can  change 

From  grave  to  joy,  from  light  to  sad 
Unfettered,  in  my  freedom  range 

And  fret  awhile,  and,  then,  be  glad. 
I  now  can  heed  a  Siren's  tongue, 

And  feel  that  eyes  glance  not  in  vain — 
Make  love  apace,  and,  being  flung, 

Get  up  and  try  my  luck  again. 

I  have  no  wife  to  pull  my  hair 

If  it  should  chance  entangled  be — 
Fm  like  the  lion  in  his  lair, 

Who  flings  his  mane  about  him  free. 
If  *iU  my  fancy,  I  can  wear 

My  boots  unblessed  by  blacking  paste. 
Cling  to  my  coat  till  it's  threadbare. 

Without  a  lecture  on  bad  taste. 


I  have  no  wife,  and  I  can  dream 

Of  girls  who're  worth  their  weight  in  gold; 
Can  bask  my  heart  in  Love's  broad  beam, 

And  dance  to  think  it's  yet  unsold. 
Or  I  can  look  upon  a  brow 

Which  mind  and  beauty  both  enhance, 
Go  to  the  shrine,  and  make  my  bow, 

And  thank  the  Fates  I  have  a  chance. 

I  have  no  wife,  and,  like  a  wave, 

Can  float  away  to  any  land. 
Curl  up  and  kiss,  or  gently  lave 

The  sweetest  flowera  that  are  at  hand. 

A  Pilgrim,  I  can  bend  before 

The    shrine    wliich    heart    and    mind 
approve ; — 

Or,  Persiim  like,  1  can  adore 

Each  star  that  gems  the  heaven  of  love. 

I  have  no  wife — in  heaven,  they  say. 

Such  things  as  weddings  are  not  known — 
Unyoked  the  blissful  spirits  stray 

O'er  fields  where  care   no  shade  has 
thrown. 
Then  why  not  have  a  heaven  below, 

And  let  fair  Hymen  hence  be  sent  ? 
It  would  be  fine — ^but  as  things  go, 

Unwedded,  folks  worCt  he  content! 


MY  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR. 

Old  Age's  twilight  dawn  hath  come, 

Its  first  gray  streak  is  here  I 
Gray  hair!  tbou'rt  eloquent  though  dumb. 
And  art,  although  forever  mum, 
Pathetic  as  a  tear. 

Thou  art  a  solemn  joke !  In  sooth 

Enough  to  make  one  pout ! 
Thou  art  not  welcome — and  in  truth, 
Thy  hue  does  not  become  my  youth — 

Therefore  I'll  pull  thee  out 


12 


178 


THOMAS    11.    SHREVE. 


[1 


How  tight  you  Ptick  !  Fm  not  in  play — 

You  melancholy  thing ! 
I'm  young  ytn — an<l,  full  many  a  day, 
ril  ki^A  the  fresh-rheekod  mom:«  of  May, 

And  woo  the  blui^hing  Spring. 

Go  blossom  on  some  grandsireV  head — 

Ye  waste  your  fragrance  here. 
Yi\  rather  wear  a  wig  that*9  red, 
With  naming  lo<*ks,  and  radiance  shed 
Around  me,  far  and  near. 

I  am  not  married — and  gray  hair 

Looks  had  on  bach«*lors. 
A  smooth,  un wrinkled  hrow  I  wear ; 
My  teeth  are  sound — rheumatics  rare — 

Therefore  gray  liairs  are  bon^s. 

I  want  to  stand  u|K)n  the  shore 

Of  matrimony's  sea. 
And  watch  the  barks  ride  proudly  o*er, 
Or  go  to  wreck  'mid  breakers'  roar, 

Ere  Hymen  launches  me. 

But  if  my  hair  should  change  to  gray, 

I  cannot  safely  stand. 
And  view  the  sea,  and  think  of  spray. 
Or  flirt  among  the  girls  who  play. 

On  wedded  life's  white  strand. 

My  nock  is  quite  too  tickMi.'^h  yet 

To  we4ir  the  marriage  yoke ! 
And  whilt>  my  hair  is  hla<>k  as  jft. 
My  heart  can  smoke  Trove's  calumet. 
And  not  with  griePs  be  broke. 

Not  long  ago  I  was  a  l)oy — 

I  can't  be  old  so  s<M»n  I 
Mv  heart  of  maidfu  aimts  is  cov. 
And  every  puUe  leaps  wild  with  joy. 

On  moonlight  nights  in  June. 

Ni»  «|KM*tai-lcs  sunn* milt  my  nosi' — 

IMv  bhxMl  is  nt»v«T  n»M — 
I  linvi*  nt)  <r(iut  alH>ut  mv  ttM*^ — 
Ami  ev«'rv  tliinir  alnnit  me  sliows 

*Tis  false — I  am  not  old ! 


I)]U(;r  op  the  niSArPOiXTEn. 

Tis  done!  and  I  must  stand  aloee! 

UneclMN*d  is  my  sigh ; 
The  star  which  late  u|kmi  me  fhone. 
And  hopef<  I  fondly  dreamed  mj  own. 

Have  fallen  from  on  high. 

Ambition's  strife,  and  wiklering  din. 

Were  life  to  my  unrest ; 
I  Iwnl  my  energies  to  win 
The  wages  of  her  faith  and  rin, 

xVnd  lost,  and  am  unbless'd. 

In  tnith,  T  thought  the  wreath  of  boe 

Was  gn*en  for  me  the  while ; 
And  o'er  my  soul  a  vision  i*ame, 
Of  a  stem  conflict  and  a  name. 
And  woman's  priceless  smfle. 


And  then,  life  was  a  summer 

No  cloud  above  it  hung — 
Far  o'er  its  sparkling  waters  free, 
iUithe  >t rains,  tliat  woke  my 

From  fairy  harps  wore  flung. 

But  shades  have  muflled  up  that  Ajt 

The  sea  is  bright  no  more  ;^ 
And  in  the  wild  wind's  sweeping  bj, 
M<Mhinks  I  hear  a  demon's  ciy, 
TluU  echoes  on  its  shore. 

Vain  is  the  lioasted  force  of  mind ; 

When  hope  hath  ta'en  her  flight ; 
Then  nirmor^'  is  most  unkind — 
And  thought  is  as  the  dread  whiriwmd, 

That  w(»rks  on  earth  its  blighu 

Then  let  tlit>  «torm  rave  round  mj  beat 

It^  opirit**  ridi*  thf*  bhist : 
,  For  ^illi-l'  the  dn*am  of  youth  ia  fled. 
Titf  wiM-HowiTs  of  my  lieart  are  dead, 

I      And  liaiipiiic^s  i>  \tiv*U 

I'vi*  learned  that  mun  may  love  too  wd 
The  fiction  of  his  heart : 


THOMAS   H.   SHREVE. 


179 


ht  can  Inre  where  shadows  dwell, 
3  a  dark  and  bitter  spell 
1  aU-blighting  art 

0  thisk  of  what  has  been, 
m  of  what  may  be— 
/er  a  sunny  scene, 
inty  robes  in  smiling  sheen, 
bought  is  misery. 


THE  USED  UP. 

is  up :  I  have  been  flung 
igh — and  worse  than  that: 
whose  praises  I  have  song, 
n,  with  pencil,  and  with  tongue, 
^No"— and  I  felt  flat 

pvill  neither  rave  nor  rant, 
ly  hard  fate  deplore : 
}uld  a  fellow  look  aslant 
irl  says  she  won't,  or  can't, 
;  there's  so  many  more  ? 

my  best — it  wouldn't  do  I 
her  she'd  regret — 
in  my  heart — and  chances,  too, 
don't  like  those  fellows,  who 
walking  papers  get 


I  loved  her  very  well, 
bought  that  she  loved  me ! 
son  why,  I  cannot  tell, 
en  I  wooed  this  pretty  bell 
a  mistake  in  me. 


rk  of  eye — and  her  sweet  smile, 

3ome  of  which  I've  read, 

—for  she,  with  softost  guile, 

ne   'mong   rocks,   near   Love's 

^ht  isle, 

hen — she  cut  me  dead. 


My  vanity  was  wounded  sore— 

And  that  I  hate  the  worst : 
You  see  a  haughty  look  I  wore, 
And  thought  she  could  not  but  adoi^ 

Of  all  men,  me  the  first 

Well,  thank  the  fates,  once  more  Fm  £ree ; 

At  every  shrine  Til  bow ; 
And  if,  again,  a  girl  cheat  me. 
Exceeding  sharp  I  guess  she'll  be — 

I've  cut  my  eye-teeth  now.^ 

Oh !  like  the  bumblebee,  Fll  rove, 
Just  when  and  where  I  please- 
Inhaling  sweets  from  every  grove, 
Humming  around  each  flower  I  love, 
And  dancing  in  each  breeze. 


TO  MY  STEED. 

Onward  thou  dashest,  gallant  steed, 
Away  fix)m  all  the  haunts  of  men! 

My  heart  from  care  is  wholly  freed. 
And  revels  in  bright  dreams  again. 

Men  call  thee  beast !     Away,  away. 
Thou  art  to  me  a  chosen  friend — 

Press  on  to  where  the  bright  rills  play, 
And  vigor  to  thy  sinews  lend  ! 

Ha !    steed,  thou    hear'st ;  and    now  thy 
bound 

Is  graceful  as  a  billow's  sweep  ; 
The  eagle's  soaring  wing  hath  found 

No  freedom  greater  than  thy  leap. 

And  now  we  climb  the  oak-crowned  hill ; 

The  valh»y  smiles  like  one  I've  loved ; 
And  breezes  bathe  my  brow,  and  fill 

My    heart   with    kindness,   heaven-ap- 
proved. 


IKO 


THOMAS    H.  SIIREVE. 


[lim 


The  light  clouds  in  the  distance  loom, 
Like  hopes  before  youtli's  tearless  eje ; 

And  blitlielj  in  the  woodland  gloom. 
Each  bird  lifts  up  his  voice  on  high. 

My  mind  is  growing  joting  again, — 
FUngs  off  the  dk«oipline  of  years, 

Forgi»ts  that  joy  is  ever  vain — 
A  gleam  upon  a  fount  of  tears. 

Tlie  fire  of  other  days  now  glows, 
Diffusing  fervor  o'er  my  fnune ; 

Freo  a<4  thy  mane,  the  hot  blood  flows 
And  cin;les  round  my  heart  like  flame. 

My  !»pirit  echoes  every  strain 

That  floats  u|Km  the  merry  breeze, 

And  riots  o'er  the  spreading  plain, 

Or  mounts  to  starry  heights  with  case. 

Onwnrd,  my  steed,  with  right  goal  will — 
We've  left  the  world  of  care  behind  ; 

Ho{)e  glances  from  each  playful  rill. 
And  songs  of  joy  are  on  the  wind. 


MIDNIGHT  MUSINGS. 


With  gentle  spirits  hovering  o*er  tbe ! 
Which  most  they  loved  while 

their  clay. 
The  mysteries  of  the  nniverie  then  wo 
I  lis  mind,  and  lead  it  np  from  heigll 

height 
Of  lofty  8{>eeulation,  to  the  Throne 
Round  which  all  suns  and  worlds  and  i 

tems  roll. 
The  Past  for  him   nnloclu    her  aflb 

stores. 
And  human  crowds  long  gathered  buoM 

death 
To  his  dark  kingdom,  people  earth  a|sii 
l^almyra  rears  her  towers  above  the  di 
And  proudly  points  her  glittering  spire 

lieaven — 
Rome  rises  up  and  seems  ac  onoe  she  i 
Her  haughty  eagles  floating  o'er  her  hi 
And  fla^hing  back  the  gaudj  light  of  d 
Into  the  blue  al)ove — and  Baby  loo 
Litis  up  her  head,  and  o*er  her  gul 

wide 
The  south  wind  wantons,  while  her  wtm 

g:ites 
Swing  on  their  hinges  as  the  haman  tiA 
ik*ats  up  against  them.     That  loplfti 

oft 


I)()tli  build  again  what,  with  his  iron  k 
TiiKRK  is  a  beauty  on  Night's  queen-like  Wild  Ruin  gnunid  into  the  very  duC 

brow,  WIii<*}i   cloud-like   rises  on  the 

With  her  rich  jewelry  of  blazing  stars  \iings 

That  to  the  heart  which  yearns  for  purer  As  it  allnfinquering  sweeps  the 

sitnes  wn-itr. 

And  holier  love  than  greets  it  here,  np(N>ul>  Such  is  ili«*  tnli^manie  power  divine 
With  a  resistless  forci*.    Grc*at  Nature  then  | Of  (frniu4  over  death  and  time  and  ffii 
A<-4erts  her  empire  o'er  the  souls  of  tlwwi'Jlt  n-ad-*  the  dim  niemorials  oa  the 
?  It-r  favored  childnm,  on  whose  eag«T  ears 
There  falls  no  wind  which  hath  no  niflodv, 
And  to  whose  eyes  each  star  unfolds  a 

world 
<  >r  glory  and  of  bliss.     The  p<i«*l  finds 
'VUv  in>piration  of  an  Ixuir  likt>  this. 
Whin  hilcncc  like  a  g:inucnt  wm|>s  the  Of  tin*  lK»y  ]icasint  *neath  the 


Of  lMiri4*4l  cnipin's — (n'oples  solitode^— 
And  >ways  its  scepter  o*er  the  RohH 

night. 
In  its  blot  missions  to  the  boniei  of  M 
I  It  turns  a^id(•  from  palaces  and  poapk 
And  ^(-nily  ^t<NJp^  to  kiss  the  peartj  In 


earth, 


ruiif. 


And  when  the  soundless  air  seems  {lopulousl  With  ey«:  anointi'<1,  it  hath  read  the 


1830-40.] 


THOMAS    H.   SHREVE. 


181 


And  tnoed  oat  an  the  boundless  blue  of 

heaven 
The  wanderings  of  worlds.    Its  Toice  goes 

forth. 
And  o'er  the  biUows  of  time's  wasteful  sea 
It  roUeth  on  forever.     It  hath  sung 
Old  Ocean's  prake,  and  with  his  surges' 

roar 
Its  song  will  ever  mingle. 


TO  AN  INDIAN  MOUND. 

Whekce,  and  why  art  thou  here,  mysteri- 
ous mound  ? 
Are  questions  which  man  asks,  but  asks 
in  vain; 
For  o'er  thj  destinies  a  night  profound. 

All  rajless  and  all  echoless,  doth  reign. 
A  thousand  years  have  passed  like  yester- 
day, 
Since  wint'ry  snows  first  on  thy  bosom 
slept, 
And  much  of  mortal  grandeur  passed  away, 
Since  thou  hast  here  thy  voiceless  vigils 
kept. 

While  standing  thus  upon  thy  oak-crowned 
head. 
The  shadows  of  dim  ages  long  since  gone 
Reel  on  my  mind,  like  specters  of  the 
dead, 
While  dirge-like  music  haunts  the  wind's 
low  moan. 
From  out  the  bosom  of  the  boundless  Past 
There  rises  up  no  voice  of  thee  to  tell : 
Eternal  silence,  like  a  shadow  vast, 
Broods  on  thy  breast,  and  shrouds  thine 
annals  welL 

Didst  thou  not  antedate  the  rise  of  Rome, 
E^yptia's  pyramids,  and  Grecian  arts  ? 


Did  not  the  wild  deer  here  for  shelter 
come 
Before  the  Tyrrhene  sea  had  ships  or 
marts? 
Through  shadows  deep  and  dark  the  mind 
must  pierce, 
Which  glaces  backward  to  that  ancient 
time: 
Nations  before  it  fall  in  struggles  fierce. 
Where   human  glory  &des  in   human 
crime. 

Upon  the  world's  wide  stage  full  many  a 
scene 
Of  grandeur  and  of  gloom,  of  blood  and 
blight, 
Hath  been  enacted  since  thy  forests  green 
Sighed  in  the  breeze  and  smiled  in  morn- 
ing's light 
Thou  didst  not  hear  the  woe,  nor  heed  the 
crime, 
Which  darken'd  earth  through  ages  of 
distress; 
Unknowing  and  unknown,  thou  stood'st 
sublime. 
And  calmly  looked  upon  the  wilderness. 

The  red  man  ofl  hath  lain  his  achmg  head, 
When  weary  of  the  chase,  upon  thy 
breast; 
And  as  the  slumberous  hours  fast  o'er  him 
fled. 
Has    dreamed  of   hunting-grounds    in 
climes  most  blest 
Perhaps  his  thoughts  ranged  through  the 
long  past  time. 
Striving  to  solve   the  problem  of  thy 
birth, 
Till  wearied  out  with  dreams,  dim  though 
sublime. 
His  fancy  fluttered  back  to  him  and 
earth. 

The  eagle  soaring  through  the  upper  lur, 
Checks  his  proud  flight,  and  glances  on  thy 
crest, 


182 


THOMAS   II.   8HREVE. 


[1«»- 


Ak  though  hi8  dci»tiny  were  pictured  there, 
In   the  deep   solitude  that  wrup8  thy 
breaat. 
Thy  reign  must  soon  be  o'er — the  human 

tide 
Is  surging  round  thee  like  a  restless  sea ; 
And  thou  must  yield  thy  empire  and  thy 
pride, 
And  like  thy  builders,  soon  forgotten  be. 


YOUTH'S  VISION  OF  TUB  FUTURE. 

Bkfoke  we  hear  the  mournful  chime 
Of  sadness  falling  on  the  hours, 

B(^fore  we  feel  the  winds  of  Time 

Like  frost-breath  on  tlie  heart's  wild 
flowers, — 

TVo  stand  by  Life's  mysterious  stream, 
Viewing  the  stars  reflected  there ; 

And  dream  not  that  each  vivid  gleam 
Can  ever  be  o'ercast  by  care. 

But  as  its  murmurs  gently  rise. 

The  lute's  soil  magic  haunts  each  tone  ; — 
Wv.  hoar  not  stricken  hearts'  sad  sighs. 

Or  dark-browed  GriePs  unwelcome 
moan. 

Like  s»ome  weird  sybil,  Fancy,  then. 
The  Future's  talc  bnMithes  on  the  heart. 

Conjuring  up  heroic  mm 

^Vnd  women  acting  angel;*'  part. 

Fame  whispers  to  the  eager  car 
(Jf  mighty  triumplis  to  be  won. 

Of  laun^ls  which  no  time  shall  sear. 
And  banners  daunting  in  the  sun. 

Slir  ]M)int.<  us  to  the  l<»nlly  frw 

Who«ebruws  no  shades  obi ivioua  wear, — 
KiitniiKM'd  by  tlicni,  wo  «lo  not  vifw 

Th«*  ghosts  of  thousands  inunu-d  there. 


Life  is  not  formed  of  tiattering 
But  duties  which  nNue  up  the  sqqI, 

While,  here  and  there,  theiv  •hool  itt 
gleams 
To  light  the  laborer  to  hia  god. 


TBE  BUSS  OF  HOM& 

Mike  be  the  joy  which  gleanu  aroimd 
The  hearth  where  pureaflecCkxisdwcft 

Where  love  enrobed  iu  amilea  is  Ibaad, 
And  wraps  the  spirit  with  its  spdL 

I  would  not  seek  excitement's  whirl. 
Where  Pleasure  wears  her  tinsel  ooi 

And  Passion's  billows  upward  mrl, 
'Neath  Hatred's  darkly  gathering  fioi 

The  dearest  boon  froin  heaven  above, 
Is  blii^s  which  brightly  hallow* 

Tlie  sunlight  of  our  world  of  love. 
Unknown  to  thone  who 


There  is  a  sy mitat by  of  heart 

Wiiich  c<«nsecrates  the  sodal  shrine^ 

Robs  grief  of  gloom,  and  doth  impait 
A  joy  to  gbuiuess  all  divine. 

It  gliuices  from  the  kindling  eye, 
Whieh  o'er  Affliction  sleepl 

1 1  giv<'s  <l(rep  [mthos  to  the  >igh 
Which  anguish  from  the 

It  plays  around  the  smiling  lipi 

When  Love  bestows  the  greeting  ki» 

Anil  sparkles  in  each  cup  we  sip 
Kuund  the  domestic  board  in  bliMl 

Let  others  seek  iu  Wealth  or  Famei 
A  .««pl«'n<lid  {Hith  whereon  to  tread^* 

IM  rut  her  wear  a  k>wlier  name. 

With  LoveV eneluuitments round  ilihf 

Fam<-*s  Itut  a  li^rlit  to  gild  the  grave, 
And  Wt>altli  can  never  calm  the  briaH 

But  I/<tv<'.  a  hali*yon  on  Life's  wnvc^ 
Hath  [lower  to  MMthe  its  strifea  to  rBH 


iSO-40.] 


THOMAS    H.    SHREVE. 


183 


REFLECTIONS  OF  AN  AGED  PIONEER. 

The  Eternal  Sea 
;  surging  np  before  my  dreaming  mind ; 
nd  on  mj  ear,  grown  dull  to  things  of 

earthy 
B  sounds  are  audible.     My  spirit  soon 
ball  brave  its  billows,  like  a  trusty  bark, 
nd  seek  the  shore  where  shadows  never 

fall 
h,  I  have  lived  too  long !     Have  I  not 

seen 
he  sons  of   four-score  summers  set  in 

gloom? 
[ath  not  my  heart  long  sepulchered  its 

hopes, 
nd  desolation  swept  my  humble  hearth  ? 
il  that  I  prized  have  passed  away,  like 

clouds 
rhich  float  a  moment  on  the  twilight  sky 
jid  fade  in  night     The  brow  of  her  I 

loved 
^  now  resplendent  in  the  light  of  heaven, 
liey  who  flung  sunlight  on  my  path  in 

youth, 
lave  gone  before  me  to  the  cloudless  clime, 
stand  alone,  like  some  dim  shall  which 

throws 
ts  shadow  on  the  desert's  waste,  while 

they 
Hh)  placed  it  there  are  gone— or  like  the 

tree 
Ipared  by   the  ax  upon  the   mountain's 

cliff, 
Vhose  sap  is  dull,  while  it  still  wears  the 

hue 
)f  life  upon  its  withered  limbs. 

Of  earth 
Vnd  all  its  scenes,  my  heart  is  weary  now, 
lis  mine  no  longer  to  indulge  in  what 
jave  life  its  bliss,  jeweled  the  day  with 

ind  made  my  slumbers  through  the  night 

as  sweet 
Is  uifant's  dreaming  on  its  mother's  breast 


The  blood  is  sluggish  in  each  limb,  and  I 
No  longer  chase  the  startled  deer,  or  track 
The  wily  fox,  or  climb  the  mountain's  side. 
My  eye  is  dim,  and  cannot  see  the  stars 
Flash  in  the  stream,  or  view  the  gathering 

storm. 
Or  trace  the  figures  of  familiar  things 
In  the  light  tapestry  that  decks  the  sky. 
^ly  ear  is  dull,  and  winds  autumnal  pass 
And  wake  no  answering  chime  within  my 

breast : 
The  songs  of  birds  have  lost  their  whilom 

spells. 
And  water-falls,  unmurmuring,  pass  me  by. 
Tis  time  that  I  were  not     The  tide  of  life 
Bears  not  an  argosy  of  hope  for  me, 
And  its  dull  waves  surge  up  against  my 

hejirt. 
Like  billows  'gainst  a  rock.     The  forests 

wide. 
All  trackless  as  proud  Hecla's  snowy  cliffs. 
From  which,  in  youth,  I  drew  my  inspira- 
tion. 
Have  fallen  round  me ;  and  the  waving 

fields 

Bow  to  the  reaper,  where  I  wildly  roamed. 

Cities  now  rise  where  I  pursued  the  deer ; 

And   dust   offends  me  where,  in  happier 
years, 

I  breatlied  in  vigor  from  untainted  gales. 

Nature  hath  bowed  before  all-conquering 

An — 
Hath  dropped  the  reign  of  empire,  which 

she  held 
With  princely  pride,  when  first  I  met  her 

here. 

The  old  familiar  things,  to  which  my  heart 
Clung  with  deep  fondness,  each,  and  all, 

are  gone ; 
And  I  am  like  the  patriarch  who  stood 
Forgotten  at  the  altar  which  he  built. 
While  crowds  rushed  by  who  knew  him 

not,  and  sneered 
At  his  simplicity. 


FREDERICK  W.  THOMAS. 


Frederick  William  Thomas  is  a  native  of  South  CaroliniL  He  wai  bora  t 
Charleston,  in  the  year  IHll.  His  fatlier,  £.  8.  Tliomas — m  nephew  of  Laiil 
ThoroaA,  author  of  ^The  Ilu^tory  of  Printing" — was  then  the  proprietor  of  th 
Charleston  Oit^  Gazette.  In  1816,  Mr.  Thomas  io\d  the  Gazette  and  remored  t 
Baltimore.  Frederick  William  wa-s  there  e<Iucated.  In  early  life  he  met  with  u 
accident  which  so  seriously  injured  his  left  leg  that  he  has  ever  bince  been  reqaiivd  t 
use  a  cane  or  cnitch.  In  consequence  of  that  misfortune  he  was  never  a  regnk 
student  at  school,  but  he  was  naturally  inclined  to  reading  and  thinking  and  wi 
judiciously  directed  and  encouniged  by  his  relatives.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  I 
began  the  study  of  law,  and  when  not  more  than  eigliteen  years  old,  wrote  a  politki 
satire  in  verse,  which  c:iused  the  office  of  the  newspaper,  in  which  it  was  poUuhed,  I 
bo  demolished  by  a  mob. 

In  1829  his  father  rmi<]^ted  fn)m  Baltimore  to  Cincinnati,  and  established^  m  ll 
latter  city,  the  Daily  Commercial  Advertiser.  The  following  year,  Frederick  Williii 
gave  up  the  law  pnictice  which,  among  kind  friends,  he  had  just  begun  in  Baltimon 
determined  to  try  his  fortune  in  the  far  West.  Soon  aAer  he  arrived  in  Cincinnati,  h 
published,  in  the  Commercial  Advertiser,  a  numlMT  of  stanzas  of  a  poem  written  whii 
ho  was  descending  the  Ohio  Kiver.  Li  1832  the  entire  poem  was  delivered  in  lb 
hall  of  the  Young  Men's  Lyceum,  and  was  s]>okf>n  of  as  a  very  creditable  peHora 
an(*e  by  Charles  Hammond,  in  the  Cincinnati  Gazette.  This,  with  other  &vandbli 
noti(*es,  induced  the  author  to  offer  it  for  public^tirm,  and  it  was  issued  in  a  aei 
pamphlet  of  forty-eight  duodecimo  pagefi,  by  Alexander  Fksh,  in  1933.  It  was  caDa 
**Tlif  Kmignmt/*  and  Wiu«  dinlicated  to  Charles  IlammoiifL  Extracts  from  it  Lave  fomM 
their  way  into  many  mag:izint*s  and  news{m|Mfrs  of  large  circulation,  and  into  populii 
M'luMtl  books.  Mr.  Thomas  assisted  his  futh«'r  in  the  editorial  management  of  iIm 
Advertiser,  and  wrote  frequently  for  other  local  journals.  Ilis  very  popular  tco^ 
**"V'\i^  said  that  Ah>en''e  contpiers  Love,"  was  contributed  to  the  Cincinnati  Americat 
in  •luty,  IH'M.  In  Ih.'M,  Mr.  Thomas  engitgcd  with  John  B.  Dillon  and  L.  Shaq 
ill  the  publi<'ation  of  The  Democratic  Intellignicer,  a  daily,  tri- weekly  and  wteklj 
journal,  wliieh  adv(X'nttMl  the  claims  of  John  Mcl^'an  as  a  candidate  for  the  oflke  oi 
President  of  th<*  Uniletl  States.  The  inteUiyencer  had  a  brief  career,  and  Mr. 
Thufiias  in  I8.'{.').  a<isi«te<l  his  father  in  the  editorial  eonihict  of  the  Dni'iy  fcvNiaj 
/'r'J(^  a  joiinial  which  sueiH>(Hlt<l  the  Daily  Advertiser,  The  Post  wan  distingniftM 
for  i'ti«*onra;:iii;;  iiotiee-i  of  nrti'^ts  and  authors,  juid  for  earnest  advoi*acy  of  enterprisa 
I :il<  nhirtil  In  I'idinncc  the  bu*iiness  interests  of  th**  city,  Init  its  financial  aifiun  wen 
|MNii-ly  manap*<l,  and  it  wiu«  di>eontinue<l  in   IH;)0. 

(  I>4  \ 


>.]  FREDERICK    W.    THOMAS.  185 

ut  the  time  he  became  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Post,  Mr.  Thomas  had  finished 
>n  Bradshaw,"  a  novel,  which  was  published  hj  Carey,  Lea  and  Blanchard,  in 
elphia,  in  the  autumn  of  1835.  The  next  year  he  wrote  "East  and  West;" 
1837  "Howard  Pinckney."  These  novels  were  also  published  in  Philadelphia 
firm  which  brought  out  "  Clinton  Bradshaw,"  but  neither  of  them  was  as  pop- 

ihat  work,  which  was  received  with  marked  favor,  on  account  of  its  admirable 
dons  of  peculiar  characters.  It  was  republished  at  Cincinnati,  by  Robinson 
nes,  in  1848. 

veen  1835  and  1840,  Mr.  Thomaa  wrote,  for  the  Cincinnati  Jftrror,  for  the 
Chronidey  and  for  the  Jlespenan,  numerous  poems  and  sketches.  Several 
e  sketches  are  included  in  a  volume  entitled  "  John  Randolph  of  Roanoke,  and 
Public  Characters,"  a  duodecimo  volume,  published  in  Philadelphia  in  1853. 
0,  Mr.  Thomas  "took  the  stump"  in  Ohio  for  William  Henry  Harrison,  as  a 
kte  for  the  Presidency,  and  won  friends  as  a  popular  orator.  Since  that  time  he 
stored  extensively  with  much  success  on  "Eloquence,"  on  "Early  struggles  of 
Dt  Men,"  and  other  popular  topics.     In  1841,  Thomas  Ewing,  Secretary  of  the 

States  Treasury,  appointed  Mr.  Thomas  to  select  a  library  for  that  department 
^emment,  which  duty  he  discharged  with  credit  to  himself  and  the  department 
tided  in  Washington  till  1850,  when  he  returned  to  Cincinnati,  and  was,  for  a 
eriod,  a  minister  in  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church.  He  was  afterward  Pro- 
jf  Rhetoric  and  English  Literature  in  the  Alabama  University,  but  having 
ined  to  resume  the  practice  of  his  legal  profession,  settled  at  Cambridge,  Mary- 
i  1858.  In  the  early  part  of  1860  he  was  induced,  however,  to  put  on  again 
Itorial  harness,  and  now  conducts  the  literary  department  of  the  JRichmond 
ua)  JSnquirer. 

laps  the  secret  of  the  irregular  pursuit  of  the  profession  chosen  in  his  youth, 
)nr  sketch  of  Mr.  Thomas's  career  exhibits,  was  given  by  him  in  a  stanza  of 
migrant:" 

'^SooD  must  1  mingle  in  the  wordy  war 
Where  knavery  takes,  in  vice,  her  sly  degrees, 
As  slip  away,  not  guilty,  ft'om  the  bar. 
Counsel  or  client,  as  their  Honors  please, 
To  breathe,  in  crowded  courts,  a  pois'nous  breath — 
To  plead  for  life — to  justify  a  death — 
To  wrangle,  jar,  to  twist,  to  twirl,  to  toil — 
This  is  the  lawyer's  life — a  heart-consuming  moil."  i  - 

Uection  of  Mr.  Thomas's  poems  has  never  been  made.  In  1844,  Harper  and 
PS,  New  York,  published  a  volume  entitled  "  The  Beechen  Tree,  a  Tale  in 
,"  With  the  "  Emigrant,"  several  well  known  songs,  and  a  few  satirical  poems 
grams,  it  would  constitute  an  acceptable  book,  which  we  hope  Mr.  Thomas  will 
J.  Rufus  Wilmot  Griswold,  in  the  "  Poets  of  America,"  said  of  Mr.  Thomas : 
IS  a  nice  discrimination  of  the  peculiarities  of  character,  which  give  light  and 
to  the  surface  of  society,  and  a  hearty  relish  for  that  peculiar  humor  which 
s  in  that  portion  of  our  country  which  undoubtedly  embraces   most   that  is 


186 


FREDKKIGK    W.   TUOMAS. 


llr 


original  and  striking  in  mannerH  and  unrestrained  in  conduct.     lie  murt  nnk  vi 
first  iIlu>tratorA  of  manners  in  the  Valley  of  the  ML^^i^jiippL'' 

£.  8.  Thonm-s  the  father  of  Frederick  Wiliiani,  died  in  CindnnAti  in  1S47. 
was  the  author  of  ^  Remiui:K:eu»es  of  the  Last  Sixty-Five  Years  ;**  a  woik  i 
volumes,   publishcnl   in   Hartford,   Connecticut,   in    1840,  which  mntainit  hM 
and  biographical  sketches  of  ]>ermanent  inten^st  to  the  people  of  the  West 
Fm  a  brother  of  Frederick  W.,  is  a  poet,  of  whom  notice  Ls  hereaAer  taken  i 
work.     Martha  M.,  a  8i>ter,  h:is  written  acceptably  for  many  magaaEinefl»  and 
author  of  "*  Lifers  Lesson,*^  a  novel  published  by  Harp«fr  and  Brotbenin  \t^o^ 
home  of  the  family  is  now  Cincinnati.     One  of  the  brut  hens  Calvin  W.,  u  i 
known  banker. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "THE  EMIGRANT/' 
TUE  PIONEER  IIUNTEKB. 

IIkre  once  Boone  trinl — the  hanly  Pio- 
neer— 

The  only  white  man  in  the  wilderness  : 

Oh!  how  he  loved,  alone,  to  hunt  the 
de(»r, 

AIoiU!  at  eve,  his  simple  mc^al  to  dn*ss; 

No  mark  upon  the  tree,  nor  prim,  ni>r 
tniek. 

To  lead  him  for^'ard,  or  to  fniidc  him 


IIow  carelnvlj  he  lean*d  opon  his 
That  scepter  of  the  wild,  that  had  « 
won. 

Those  we>tem  Pioneers  an  impuL 
Which  their  le»s  hardy  sons  scaro 

prehend  ; 
Alone,  in  Nature's  wildest  sccnci 

dwelt ; 
Where  crag,  and  precipioey  and  t 

blend. 
An<l  stretched  aroand  the  wilden 

nule 


''•"'*^  •  A«i  the  n*d  rover*  of  its  sofitodei 

lie  roved  the  fon>st,  kinjr  by  main  an.l       ^y,^^  watclK-d  their  coming  with  i 


mijrht. 


pn>found. 


'^  I  in  noil  nil. 

And  l.H.k.'ii  up  to  the  >ky  and  ^haIK^l  hi^    ^,,,j  jj,^^,,,^  ^.j,|^  ^,^^^,1^  ^^^^  ^ 

coui>e  ari-ht,  j,,,.|^  ^,.  p^„„j^ 


That   mountain,  then*,  that  lifts  its  bald, 

hi;;h  hea<l 
AlM»\e   the   foH'St,   was   {MTchane*',    hi-* 

throne; 
Till  re  h:is    h«^    stfXMl    and    marked    the 

\v<mmI>  outspread. 
Like  a  ;ri'eat  kiii^^dom.  that  was  all  his 

ou  II : 

III  Iiiiiiiiii<;-shirt  and  ni<M'i>:i<in<  arniyml. 
Willi  lM>ai'-Ain  rap,  and  pimch,  and  heed- 
ful blade,  • 


To  -'liun  a  greater  ill  sought  thi 

^ild? 
No,  they  h*n  happier  lands  behind 

far. 
And  bnm;;ht  the  nursing  mother  ai 

child 
To  >lian'  the  danjTPntof  the  hordn 
Th«'  io;!-btiih  cidiin  from  the  India 

n**l. 
Their  liitle  lK>y,  {MTrhance,  kepi 

and  wanl. 


1930-40.] 


FREDERICK   W.   THOMAS. 


187 


While  father  plowed  with  rifle  at  his 
hack, 
Or  eoDgfat  the  glutted  foe  through  many  a 
devious  track. 

How  cautiously,  yet  fearlessly,  that  boy 
Would  search  the  forest  for  the  wild 

beast's  lair, 
And  lift  his  rifle  with  a  hurried  joy, 
If  chance  he  spied  the  Indian  lurking 

there: 
And  should  they  bear  him  prisoner  from 

the  flght, 
While  they  are  sleeping,  in  the  dead 

midnight, 
He  slips  the  thongs  that  bind  him  to  the 

tree. 
And  leaving  death  with  them,  bounds  home 

right  happily. 

Before  the  mother,  bursting  through  the 

door, 
The  red  man  rushes  where  her  infants 

rest; 
0  God !  he  hurls  them  on  the  cabin  floor ! 
While  she,  down  kneeling,  clasps  them 

to  her  breast. 
How  he  exults  and  revels  in  her  woe, 
And   lifts  the  weapon,  yet  delays  the 

blow ; 
Ha !  that  report !  behold !  he  reels  I  he 

dies! 
And  quickly  to  her  arms  the  husband — 

father — flies. 

In  the  long  winter  eve,  their  cabin  fast. 
The  big  logs   blazing  in   the   chimney 

wide — 
They*d  hear  the  Indian  howling,  or  the 

blast, 
And    deem   themselves   in    c&<%tellated 

pride: 
Then  would  the  fearless  forester  disclose 
Most  strange  adventures  with  his  sylvan 

foes, 


Of  how  his  arts  did  over  theirs  prevail. 
And  how  he  followed  far  upon  their  bloody 
traiL 

And  it  was  happiness,  they  said,  to  stand, 

Wlien  summer  smiled  upon  them  in  the 
wood. 

And  see  tbeir  little  clearing  there  ex- 
pand, 

And  be  the  masters  of  the  solitude. 

Danger  was  but  excitement ;  and  when 
came 

The  tide  of  emigration,  life  grew  tame ; 

Then  would  they  seek  some  unknown 
wild  anew. 
And  soon,  above  the  trees,  the  smoke  was 
curling  blue. 

TUB  RED  HAN. 

How  patient  was  that  red  man  of  the 

wood! 
Not  like  the  white  man,  garrulous  of  ill — 
Starving !  who  heard  his  faintest  wish 

for  food  ? 
Sleeping  iipon  the  snow-drift  on  the  hill ! 
Who  heard  him  chide  the  blast,  or  say 

'twas  cold  ? 
His  wounds  are  freezing !  is  the  anguish 

told? 
Tell  him  his  child  was  murdered  with 

its  mother! 
He  seems  like  carved  out  stone  that  has  no 

woe  to  smother. 

With  fi-ont  erect,  up-looking,  dignified — 

Behold  high  Hecla  in  eternal  snows  I 

Yet  while  the  raging  tempest  is  defied, 

Deep  in  its  bosom  how  the  pent  flame 

glows ! 

And  when  it  bursts  forth  in  its  fiery 
wrath ! 

How  melts  the  ice-hill  fh)m  its  fearful 
path, 

As  on  it  rolls,  unquench'd,  and  all  un- 
tamed!— 
Thus  was  it  with  that  chief  when  his  wild 
passions  flamed. 


188 


FREDERICK   <«r.   THOIIA8. 


I 


Nature's  own  statesman — by  experience 

taught. 
He  judged  most  wisely,  and  could  act  as 

well; 
With  quickest  glance  could  read  anotlier's 

thought. 
His  own,  the  while,  the  keenest  could 

not  tell ; 
Warriop^with  skill  to  lengthen,  or  com- 
bine. 
Lead  on  or  back,  the  desultory  line ; 
Hunter — he  passed  the  trackless  forest 

tlirough, 
Now  on  the  mountain  trod,  now  launch*d 

the  light  canoe. 


To  the  Great  Spirit,  would  his  spirit  bow. 

With  hopes  that  Nature's  impulses  im- 
part; 

Unlike  tlie  Christian,  who  just  says  his 
vow 

With  heart  enough  to  say  it  all  by  heart. 

Did  we  his  virtues  from  his  faults  dis- 
cern, 

Twould  teach  a  lesson  that  we  well 
might  learn : 

An  inculcation  worthiest  of  our  creed. 
To  tell  the  simple  truth,  and  do  the  prom- 
ised deed. 

LOVB. 

0,  Ix>ve  !  what  rhymer  hot  noi 

thee  ? 
And,  who,  with  heart  so  yoiuif 

who  sings, 
Knowii  not  thou  art  8elf4NirdeiM 

bee, 
Who,  loving  many  flowerSi  ma 

have  wings  ? 
Tes,  ihou  art  wing'd,  O,  Love!  I 

in<!  thought. 
That  now  is  with  us,  and  now  i 

nau^rht. 
Until  dvvp  passion  stamps  the 

brain. 
And  this  i<«  oloquiniH*.     Tw  the  intcn.*.'.  ^ike  l>o,...  in  folded  fk>wen  that  i 
Im|>a5>iont'd    fervor    of  a    mind    deep 
fraught 


How  deeply  eloquent  was  the  debate. 
Beside  the  council-fire  of  those  red  men ! 
With  language  burning  as  his  sense  of 

hate ; 
With  gesture  just;  as  eye  of  keenest 

ken ; 
With  illustration  simple  but  profound, 
Drawn  from  the  sky  above  him,  or  tlie 

ground 
Bcnt^ath  his  feet ;  and  with  unfalt'ring 

zeal, 
He  ppokc  from  a  warm  heart  and  made 

eVn  cold  hearts  fecL 


With  native    enei^,  when  » 

sense 

Burst  forth,  embodied  in  the 

thought ; 
When  look,  emotion,  tone,  nre 

bined — 
When  the  whole  man  is  eloqn 

mind — 
A  power  that  comes  not  to  the 

quest. 
But  from  the  gifted  soal,  and  the  d 

ing  breast. 

Poor  Logan  had  it,  when  be  i 

that  none 
Were  left  to  moam  f(»*  him ; — ^ 

who  swayed 
The  Roman  Senate  by  a  look  o 
Twas  the  Athenian's,  when  his 

mayed, 
Shrunk    ftt>m  the    farthqnake 

trumpet  call ; 
Twus  Cliatham's,  strong  as  eith 

all; 
Twas  Henr}''s  holiest,  when  I 

woke 
Our  patriot  fathers'  seal  to  borst  t 

ish  yoke. 


foki  again. 


183(Ma] 


FREDERICK    W.   THOMAS. 


189 


TO  THs  omo. 

Auspicions  Time!  unroll  the  scroll  of 
years — 

Behold  our  pious  pilgrim  fathers,  when 

They   launch'd  their  little    bark,   and 
braved  all  fears, 

Those      peril-seeking,     freedom-loving 
men! 

Bless  thee  thou  stream !  abiding  bless- 
ings bless 

Thy  farthest  wave — Nile  of  the  wilder- 
ness! 

And  be  thy  broad  lands  peopled,  far  and 
wide, 
With  hearts  as  free  as  his  who  now  doth 
bless  thy  tide. 

And  may  new  States  arise,  and  stretch 
afar, 

In  glory,  to  the  great  Pacific  shore — 

A  galaxy,  without  a  falling  star — 

Freedom's  own  Mecca,  where  the  world 
adore. 

There  may  Art  build — to  Knowledge 
there  be  given, 

The  book  of  Nature  and  the  light  of 
Heav'n ; 

There  be  the  statesman's  and  the  patri- 
ot's shrine, 
And  oh!  be  happy  there,  the  hearts  that 
woo  the  nine. 

There  is  a  welcome  in  this  western  land 
Like  the  old  welcomes,  which  were  said 

to  give 
The  friendly  heart  where'er  they  gave 

the  hand ; 
Within  this  soil  the  social  virtues  live, 
Like  its  own  forest  trees,  unprun'd  and 

free — 
At  least  there  is  one  welcome  here  for 

me: 
A  breast  that  pillowed  all  my  sorrows 

past. 
And  waits  my  coming  now,  and  lov'd  me 

first  and  last. 


WOMAN. 

How  beautiful  is  woman's  life. 

When  first  her  suppliant  woos  and  kneels. 
And  she  with  young  and  warm  hopes  rife. 

Believes  he  deeply  feels  ! 

Then  day  is  gladness,  and  the  night  ; 

Looks  on  her  with  its  starry  eyes. 
As  though  it  gave  her  all  their  might 

Over  men's  destinies. 

Rapt  watchers  of  the  skyey  gleam, 
Then  men  are  like  astronomers. 

Who  gaze  and  gladden  at  the  beam 
Of  that  bright  eye  of  hers. 

And  should  a  frown  obscure  its  light, 
'Tis  like  a  cloud  to  star-struck  men. 

Through  the  long  watches  of  the  night : 
O !  for  that  beam  again  ! 

How  heart-struck,  that  astrologer, 

A  gazer  on  the  starry  zone, 
When  first  he  looked  in  vain  for  her, 

The  lovely  Pleiad  gone. 

But  men  watch  not  the  stars  always. 
And  though  the  Pleiad  may  be  lost, 

Yet  still  there  are  a  thousand  rays 
From  the  surrounding  host. 

And  woman,  long  before  the  grave 
Closes  above  her  dreamless  rest, 

May  be  man's  empress  and  his  slave. 
And  his  discarded  jest 

Still  may  that  Pleiad  shine  afar. 
But,  pleasure-led  o'er  summer  seas. 

Who  dwells  upon  a  single  star 
Amid  the  Pleiades  ? 

Man  courts  the  constellations  bright. 
That  beam  upon  his  bounding  bark. 

Nor  thinks  upon  the  left,  lone  light, 
Till  all  above  is  dark. 


]!M) 


FRRDKRICK    W.  THOMAS. 


[inMt 


Then,  when  he  knows  nor  land  nor  main, 
And  darklv  is  his  fniil  hnrk  tuss'd, 

He  t'TMirts  the  80|»anit(*  stiir  in  vuin, 
And  mourns  the  Pleiad  lost. 


•TIS    SAID    THAT    ABSKN'CE    CUNQUKRS 

LOVE. 

Tis  said  that  al)sem'e  conqiitTs  love ! 

l>ut,  oh !  believe  it  not ; 
I've  tried,  ahxs !  its  i)ower  to  prove, 

But  thou  art  not  tbrg«»t. 
I^kIv,  though  fate  has  bid  us  i>art, 

Yrt  still  thou  art  as  dear — 
As  tixed  in  this  devoted  heart 

Aja  when  1  elaspM  thee  here. 

I  phin;^  into  the  busy  crowil, 
And  smile  to  hear  thv  name  ; 

And  yet,  as  if  I  thou^^ht  aloud, 
Thev  know  me  still  the  same; 

* 

And  when  the  wine-eup  jwisses  n>und, 

I  t(Kist  some  oth«»r  Fair; — 
ISiit  wIkmi  I  ask  mv  heart  the  soimd, 

Tliy  name  is  i'ehoe<l  tlu*n*. 

And  when  some  other  name  I  learn, 

And  try  to  whisjKT  love, 
%Still  will  mv  heart  to  thee  return, 

Likt*  the  retuniinff  dove. 
In  vain  !   1  nevtT  ean  tbrp't. 

And  would  not  U*  t'orp»t ; 
For  I  must  lN*ar  the  sam«*  n*^n't, 

WhateVr  mav  1m»  mv  lot. 

•f  * 

K'cn  a«i  the  woundrd  binl  will  srek 

Ir-*  favorilf  l>ower  l<i  <lie. 
So,  liiily  !   I  would  li«':ir  tlH'i*  -|N*ak, 

Ami  yii'M  my  partin;;  «iL;li. 
'Ti-  -:iid  that  al»-«'n<*t»  <*oiHpi«T'*  love  I 

linf,  oil !  iK'lii'M'  it  imt ; 
W*'  irii'il,  mIji*  I  ii<  jMiw<'r  In  jirov«*, 

]\\u  thou  art  not  for;:ot. 


WHEN  THOU  WERT 

WiiKN  thou  wert  true,  when  thoa  wert  trae. 

My  heart  did  thy  imprRfttion  take. 
As  do  the  d<*pths,  when  fk\o9  are  bhic. 

Of  some  wood-girt  and  quiet  lake: 
Tht*  ima^re  of  the  moon,  which  gives 
The  calmness  in  whoac  light  «he  lives. 

But  when  doubt  onroe.  my  titmUed  hrmi 

m 

Wiu<  like  that  lake  when   mde  viadi 
blow; 
Her  image  then,  thongh  rtill  iraprea^dt 

Beams  bn>keidy,  in  ebb  and  Hov, 
Until  the  storm  obscures  her  light. 
And  ri'igns  the  elxm-viMiged  nighL 


I 


I 


I 


Again  that  changing  moon  will 

When  .^lornw  an?  o*er,  within  the  lake, 

Which,  like  that  wayward  heart  of  thine, 
C*an  any  other  image  take. 

Mine,  gmven  like  memorial  stooey 

Is  now  a  ineniorv  alone. 


THY  PORTRAIT. 

I'vK  hung  thy  portrait  on  mj  wall, 
And,  a>  I  move  alx>ut  mj  room, 

Still  will  thy  bright  eye^  on  me  &11, 
.Vnd  M-eni  to  light  the  gkiom. 

ThiH  i<  thy  gentle  spiritV  opell 
l'|M»n  nu*  wln-resoeVr  I  rove, 

And  thu>  iN'iKMith  it  do  I  dwell 
With  an  adoring  kjve. 


(*\iTKi>  hearts  have  made  United  Staffs! 
Wiiat  rii-.ild  a  r'inglc.  M')»arate  Stale  have 

doi:»' 
WiiliiiMt  tin-  niMi'.  t»f  her  <*(>nfe«1entcs? 
TiM-y  ^r:ind  inii:>d.  hut  divid«>«)  fall^ 
'Twa*"  Ciiioii  ihar  gave  LiU*rty  to  alL 


JOHN   H.  BRYANT. 


OWARD  Bryant  was  bom  on  the  twenty-second  day  of  July,  1807,  at 
my  Massachusetts.  He  applied  himself  in  early  life  with  much  diligence  to 
al  studies  and  to  the  investigation  of  natural  science,  manifesting  at  the 
not  only  a  love  for  poetical  literature,  but  a  promising  capacity  for  the 
rhymes.  His  father,  a  man  of  decided  character,  as  well  as  literary  cul- 
>ride  in  evidences  of  poetic  ability  which  his  sons  early  exhibited.  He 
n  the  difference  between  true  poetic  feeling  and  the  mere  rhyming  faculty, 
{paid  his  good  care  by  producing,  in  boyhood,  poems  which  have  been  pre- 

their  excellence.  At  fourteen  years  of  age  (1809)  William  Cullen  pub- 
e  Embargo  and  other  Poems,"  at  Boston.  "  Thanatopsis "  was  written 
as  nineteen  years  old.  John  Howard's  first  published  poem  appeared  in 
e  Untied  States  Review^  of  which  his  brother,  William  Cullen  Bryant,  was 

editors.  It  was  entitled  "  My  Native  Land,"  and  it  elicited  much  hearty 
lent  for  the  young  poet,  both  in  New  York  city  and  in  Boston — ^in  which 
Review  was  simultaneously  published. 

been  seized  with  the  "  Western  fever,"  Mr.  Bryant  became  a  "  squatter  " 
county,  Illinois,  in  1831.  When  the  public  lands  of  that  part  of  the  State 
market,  he  purchased  a  large  farm,  took  to  himself  a  wife,  and  has  ever 
a  resident  of  the  county  in  which  he  was  an  "  early  settler." 
ant  has  been  honored  with  many  tokens  of  public  confidence  by  the  people 
^m  he  resides.  In  1842,  he  was  elected  a  Representative  to  the  State  Leg- 
)m  Bureau  county,  and,  in  1852,  was  the  candidate  for  Congress  of  the 
Eirty  in  the  third  Congressional  District  of  Illinois.  He  has  held  several 
i  of  trust,  and  was,  in  1858,  a  second  time  State  Representative  from  Bureau 

ant,  though  an  active  and  successful  business  man,  conducting  with  energy 

[cultural  affairs,  as  well  as  taking  lively  interest  in  public  concerns,  has 

the  poetic  taste  and  faculty,  and  redeemed  tlie  promise  which  his  first 

gave.      In  the  "  Poets  and   Poetry  of  America,"  Rufus  Wilmot  Gris- 


s  .  .  .  .  have  the  pame  general  characteristics  as  those  of  his  brother.  He  is  a 
are,  and  descril)e8  minutely  and  effectively.  To  him  the  wind  and  the  stream  are  ever 
the  forests  and  prairies  clotheil  in  Ix'auty.  Ilis  versification  is  easy  and  correct,  and 
show  him  to  be  a  man  of  taste  and  kindly  fecllugs,  and  to  have  a  mind  stored  with 
ning. 

,  !Mr.  Bryant  collected  his  poems  in  a  duodecimo  volume  of  ninety-threo 
:h  was  published  by  D.  Appleton  and  Company,  New  York. 


(191) 


l'.»- 


JOHN    II.    BRYANT. 


[IK3II-4I 


THE  INDIAN  SUMMER, 

That  M>i\j  autumnal  time 
l<  i^oiie,  (bat  stheds  ujion  the  naked  8Cone, 
^  luirtiks  only  known  in  tliiii  our  northern 
oUiiK*— 

Llri^ht  Mnbion^  tar  between. 

The  wiK.Hllanil  foliajre  now 
N  j'uihcn'd  bv  the  wild  November  blast ; 
KVii    the    thick   leaves    u]>on  the    oaken 
lvii>;h 

An'  tUllen,  to  the  la"»t. 

llio  iiii^hlT  vine.s  that  round 
I'tic  K»iv«l  trunks  tlieir  slender  branches 

biiuL 
I'Ik  It  vMui'iWi  toliaj^e  shaken  to  the  {rround, 
^MUi^  naked  to  the  win<l. 

S«.»uie  liviiijr  pnM»n  n»mains 
i'.^  Jw  A<\iV  briKik  that  hhinrs  along  thr 

LkVkU  \ 
fivu  ll■^•  ^^41  >«rtt!to  stands  white  o'er  all  tht* 

Viul  iho  bri^^ht  flowers  are  gtme. 

tUil  ihe>e,  tlie>e  an'  thy  eluinn? — 
\t.'  I   t  I     itid  teui|H'red  light  ujum  the  h>a; 
V...I  iIm-  \%.a  hoKN  no  tinn*  within  his  anus 

i  U.ii  dolh  iVM-niblr  thee. 

I  Im>  -tuiiiix  iiiNtn  i>  thiup, 
*.  ..!    .  *.:.U  II.  uoiM-h*-".  a-  tin-  drad  ot"  night ; 
\i*.l  t.u.  .  (I.  It  Ml  thr  thi-h«d  horizon  >hinc 
\i  I  \v  aud  riiiU  light. 

t'..'  M-ai'^  l:i-«,  li»v«'lii'-t  >niil«', 
\     .  .  .X' II  «i   u*  till   \\iih   h<>)N-  thr   hunuii 

i 

i      ^  . 

\     .       v    .  Jun  it  iolH'arllw-«.|nnii^awhih-, 
li.l  «iiiU'i'-»  tn»ui:-  d4|»:irt. 


Far  in  a  sheltered  nook 
Fvc  met,  in  these  calm  dajt,  a  aniliBg 

flower, 
A  lonely  a-^ter,  trembling  hj  a  brDok, 
At  noon*s  warm  quiet  hour: 


And  something  told  mj 
That,  should  old  age  to  cliildboud  caQ  mt 

back, 
Some  sunny  days  and  flowers  I  still  mi^ 
find 

Along  life's  weary  track. 


ON  A  FOUN'TAIN  IN  A  FOREST. 

TiiRKK  hinidred  years  are  scarcelj  pooe. 

Since,  to  the  New  World's  virgin  *hoir, 
Crowds  of  rud<?  men  were  pressing  oa 

To  ningi*  its  lioundless  regions  o*er. 

Somr  bore  the*  sword  in  bloodr  hands. 
And  Slicked  its  helplf  ss  towns  for  spoil 

Some  s<'ju*ch«Hl  for  gold  the  river^s  sands. 
Or  trencheti  the  mountain's  ■Cubbora  nfl 

And  .-^ime  with  higher  puqiose  soagfat. 

Thnaigh  fnr«*sts  wild  and  wastes  aacuutk 
Sought  ^itli  long  toil,  yet  found  it  not — 

The  fountain  of  eternal  youth ! 

TIh'v  -ijiid  in  *<»in«*  green  valley,  wheiv 
Tho  fiHit  of  man  hail  never  trod. 

Then'  gn>!icd  u  fountain  bright  and  fiur. 
rp  t'roin  tilt-  cvt'r-vt'nlant  sod. 

Tli<'ri'  tiifv  wlio  dnink  should  never  knoi 
Al"'.  VI  itli  \i^  Wfiikncss  |iain,  and  gkwa 

And  fmrn  it^  brink  tlif  old  should  go 
With  \i>utir>  light  >tfpand  radiant blooa 


\ 
\ 


' ,   \\\Ar  plain-*,  that  lie  ,1.-  iii»t  tiii«  fuuiit.  <o  pun*  and  sweet, 

.  .  ilii  tin- ofaiimiiin  >pri';n1.       Wlin'i-  >t:iiiilr««  nirn-nt  ripples  o'ef 
1  '.  u   \\:\\U  o!"  tin*  >tarry  >ky.    jThi-  trinjir  i»f  hln-iMinj^  at  my  feet, 
«M..i   wild  «'IinHn(*r  .'^hcd.  |     Tin-  -:iint- iIiom*  pilgrims  sought  of  JOR? 


I 


JOHN    H.    BRYANT. 


193 


ightly  leap,  mid  glittering  sands, 
iving  waters  from  below ; 
me  dip  these  lean,  brown  hands, 
I  deep,  and  bathe  this  wrinkled  brow ; 

1,  throagh  every  shrunken  vein, 

farm,  red  stream  flow  switl  and  free ; 

aking  in  my  heart  again 

b's  brightest  hopes,  youth's  wildest 

e. 

n,  for  still  the  life-blood  plays 

sluggish  course  through   all   my 
me; 

rror  of  the  pool  betrays 
mnkled  visage  still  the  same. 

3  sad  spirit  questions  still — 
this  warm  frame — these  limbs,  that 

ad 

I  light  motion  of  the  will — 
v'ith  the  dull  clods  of  the  field  ? 

ture  no  renewing  power 
rive  the  frost  of  age  away  ? 
th  no  fount,  or  herb,  or  flower, 
'h  man  may  taste  and  live  for  aye  ? 

or  that  unchanging  state 

>uth  and  strength,  in  vain  we  yeani ; 

ly  after  death's  dark  gate 

iched  and  passed,  can  youth  return. 


TUE  BLUE-BIRD. 

iE  is  a  lovely  little  bird,  that  comes 

he  first  wild-flowers  open  in  the  glen, 

igs  all  summer  in  the  leafy  wood. 

n  the  opening  spring,  hib  mellow 

ice 

from  the  shrubbery  by  our  dwelling 

e; 

en  the  robin  and  the  swallow  come, 
him  from  their  presence  to  the  depth 


Of  some  old  mossy  forest,  where  he  sings 
Sweet  songs,  to  cheer  us  all  the  summer 

long. 
This  is  the  blue-bird,  loveliest  of  cor 

clime: 
No  song  that  haunts  the  woodland  charms 

like  his — 
Sweetest,  far  sweetest,  is  his  voice  to  me, 
At  the  sofl  liour  of  twilight,  when  the  world 
Has  hushed  her  din  of  voices,  and  her  sons 
Are  gathering  to  their  slumbers  from  their 

toil. 
As  all  are  gathered  to  the  grave  at  last 
I  sit  whole  hours  ui)ou  a  moss-grown  stone. 
In  some  sequestered  spot,  and  hear  his  lay. 
Unmindful  of  the  things  that  near  me  pass. 
Till  all  at  once,  as  the  dim  sliades  of  night 
Fall   thicker  on  the  lessening  landscape 

round, 
lie  ceases,  and  my  reverie  is  broke. 

One  summer  eve,  at  twilight's  quiet  hoar. 
After  a  sultry  day,  spent  at  my  books, 
I  slipped  forth  from  my  study,  to  enjoy 
The  cool  of  evenuig.     Leaning  on  my  arm 
Was  one  I  loved,  a  girl  of  gentle  mould : 
She  had  sweet  eyes,  and  lips  the  haunt  of 

smiles. 
And  long  dark  locks,  that  hung  in  native 

curls 
Around  her  snowy  bosom.    The  light  wind 
Tossed  them  aside,  to  kiss  her  lily  neck. 
Gently,  as   he   were  conscious   what  he 

touched. 
Iler  step  was  light,  light  as  the  breeze  that 

fanned 
Her  blushing  cheek;  gay  was  her  heart, 

for  youth 

And  innocence  are  ever  gay ;  her  form 

Wait  stately  as  an  angel's,  and  her  brow 

White  as  the  mountain  snow;  her  voice 
was  sweet. 

Sweet  as  the  chiding  of  the  brook  that  plays 

Along  its  pebbly  channel.     Ruddy  clouds 

Were  gathered  east  and  soutli,  high  piled 

and  seemed 

Like  ruby  temples  in  a  sapphire  sky. 


13 


194 


JOHX    11.    BRYANT. 


[I 


The  wrst  was  bright  with  daylight  still :  no 
moon, 

No  Mars  were  seen,  save  the  bright  star  of 

love, 
That  sailed  alone  in  heaven.    Twas  in  this 

walk, 
We  hcanl  the  blue-bird  in  a  leafy  wood 
Near  to  the  wayside,  and  we  sat  us  down 
l'|K>n  a  mossiy  bank,  to  li>t  awhile 
To  that  sweet  song.    Peaceful  before  us  lay 
Woodlands,  and  on*hards  white  with  ver- 
nal bloom, 
And    flowering  shrubs  eDcireling  happy 

homes, 
And  broad  green  meads  with  wild-flowers 

sprinkled  o*er : 
Tlie  went  of  these  eame  on  the  gentle  wind. 
Sweet  as  the  spicy  breath  of  Araby. 
The  smoke  above  the  clustering  roofs  curled 

blue 
On  the  still  air;   the  shout  of  running 

streams 
Came  from  a  leafy  thi<rket  by  our  side ; 
And  tliat  lone  blue-bird  in  the  wood  above. 
Singing  his  evening  hymn,  perfectetl  all. 
The  hour,  the  season,  sounds,  and  scenery, 
Minirling  like  these,  and  sweetly  pleasing  all,  ■ 
Made  the  full  heart  o'erflow.    That  maiden 

wept — 
Even  at  the  sweetness  of  tliat  song  she 

wept. 
How  sweet  the  tears  shed  by  such  eyes  for 

joy! 


The  hero's  glory,  and  bin  fiune. 

Built  up  mid  crime,  and  blood,  and  le 

Are  but  a  tran>ient  flush  of  fiune 
Amid  the  eternal  night  of 


lie  whom  but  yesterday  we  nw 
Karth's  mightiest  prince,  u  gone  to-d 

All  systems,  creeds,  save  Truth** 
Arc  borne  along  and  swept  away. 


1 


And  Fa<hion*s  forms  and  gilded  show. 

Shall  vanish  with  the  fleeting  bntfk 
And  Pleasure's  votaries  shall  know 

Their  folly  at  the  gates  of  death. 

But  he  who  delves  for  baried  thoaght, 
And  seeks  with  care  for  hidden  trati 

Shall  find  in  age,  unasked,  onbooght, 
A  rich  reward  for  toil  in  yoath. 

Aye  more, — away  beyond  life**  goal, 
Of  earnest  toil  each  wemrj  day 

Shall  light  the  {uithway  of  the  Mai 
Far  on  its  onwani,  upward  way. 

Then  who  can  tell  how  wide  a  iphere 
Of  thought  and  deed  shall  be  k»  b( 

Who  tn*asurcd  truth  and  knowledge  he 
And  doing  good,  himself  forgot? 


THE  BETTKR  PART. 

Why  should  we  toil  for  h(ianlf*<I  ^in, 
Or  waste  in  strife  our  nobler  iH>wi*rs, 

Or  liiUow  PleJLMire's  ;:littrring  train  ? 
(),  lei  a  happi'.T  clii»irf  In*  uurs. 

!)•  :iili  -liall  inniorvi'  iIm*  :mn  of  j»owit, 
l'lJ^l:l^p  ilir  finnr>t  ;rra'»p  cm  >r«»M, 

Aim!  x'iiltiT  wiilc  ill  onr  brii'f  hour 
Tlie  tn'ii^ure«l  h«'aps  of  wealth  untold. 


THE  VALLEY  BROOK. 

Fkesii  from  the  fountains  of  the  wood 
A  rivulet  of  the  valley  came, 

AikI  grKJi'd  un  for  many  a  rood. 
Fhi>lK'd  with  the  morning's  ruddy  fla 

TIm*  air  was  fn^sh  and  soft  and  sweet: 
Tin*  >lo|M's  in  Spring's  new  rerduie  I 

And  wft  witli  di*w-<In»ps  at  my  firrt, 
IfliNirncd  till'  voun;;  violets  of  Mav. 

Ni»  ."Oiiinl  lit"  l»ii-v  lift*  wiL<  hf*nid. 

■ 

AiiiitI  tlto^f  p:i<itures  l(»ne  and  still, 
Siixi*  tli«-  faint  cliiqt  of  I'ariy  liinL 
Or  bli-at  of  t)<M'ks  along  the  hiD. 


183(>>40.] 


JOHN   H.    BRYANT. 


195 


I  traced  that  rivulet's  winding  way ; 

New  scenes  of  beautj  opened  round, 
Where  meads  of  brighter  verdure  lay, 

And  lovelier  blossoms  tinged  the  ground. 

^  Ah  1  happj  valley-stream,"  I  said, 
^  Calm  glides  thy  wave  amid  the  flowers, 

Whose  fragrance  round  thy  path  is  shed, 
Through  all  the  joyous  summer  hours. 

^  Oh !  could  my  years,  like  thine,  be  passed 
In  some  remote  and  silent  glen, 

Where  I  might  dwell,  and  sleep,  at  last. 
Far  itom  the  bustling  haunts  of  men." 

But  what  new  echoes  greet  my  ear  ? 

The  village  school-boys'  merry  call ; 
And  mid  the  village  hum  I  hear 

The  murmur  of  the  water-falL 

I  looked ;  the  widening  vale  betrayed 
A  pool  that  shone  like  burnished  steel. 

Where  that  bright  valley-stream  was  stayed, 
To  turn  the  miller's  ponderous  wheeL 

Ah !  why  should  I,  I  thought  with  shame, 

Sigh  for  a  life  of  solitude, 
When  even  this  stream,  without  a  name. 

Is  laboring  for  the  conmion  good  ? 

No  longer  let  me  shun  my  part, 
Amid  the  busy  scenes  of  life ; 

But,  with  a  warm  and  generous  heart. 
Press  onward  in  the  glorious  strife. 


THE  BLIND  RESTORED  TO  SIGHT. 

When  the  Great  Master  spoke, 
He  touched  his  withered  eyes, 

And  at  one  gleam  upon  him  broke 
The  glad  earth  and  the  skies. 

And  he  saw  the  city's  walls, 
And  king's  and  prophet's  tomb. 


And  mighty  arches  and  vaulted  halls 
And  the  temple's  lofly  dome. 

He  looked  on  the  river's  flood 
And  the  flash  of  mountain  rills. 

And  the  gentle  wave  of  the  palms  that  stood 
Upon  Judea's  hills. 

He  saw,  on  heights  and  plcdns, 

Creatures  of  every  race ; 
But  a  mighty  thrill  ran  through  his  veins 

When  he  met  the  human  £aoe. 

And  his  virgin  sight  beheld 

The  ruddy  glow  of  even. 
And  the  thousand  shining  orbs  that  filled 

The  azure  depths  of  heaven. 

Though  woman's  voice  before 
Had  cheered  his  gloomy  night. 

To  see  the  angel  form  she  wore 
Made  deeper  the  delight. 

And  his  heart,  at  daylight's  close. 
For  the  bright  world  where  he  trod, 

And  when  the  yellow  morning  rose, 
Gave  speechless  thanks  to  God. 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  SONG. 

Away,  away  we  haste 

Vast  plains  and  mountains  o'er, 
To  the  glorious  land  of  the  distant  West, 

By  the  broad  Pacific's  shore. 

Onward,  with  toilsome  pace. 

O'er  the  desert  vast  and  dim. 
From  mom  till  the  sun  goes  down  to  his 
place 

At  the  far  horizon's  rim. 

By  the  wild  Missouri's  side — 

By  the  lonely  Platte  we  go. 
That  brings  its  cold  and  turbid  tide 

From  far-off  cliffs  of  snow. 


196 


JOHN    H.    BRYANT. 


[ICOi- 


The  red  deer  in  the  shade 

Shall  full  before  our  aim, 
And  at  eventide  rtliall  our  fea^t  be  made 

From  the  flesh  of  the  bison's  fnuue. 

And  when  our  feast  is  done, 

And  the  twilight  sinks  awaj, 

We  will  talk  of  tlie  deeds  of  tlie  days  that 
are  gone, 

And  the  friends  that  arc  far  away. 

We  heed  not  the  bnming  sun. 

Nor  the  plain  winds  wild  and  bh*ak. 

And  the  driving  rain  will  beat  in  vain 
On  the  emignuit's  liardened  cheek. 

Still  onward,  diiy  by  <lay, 

0*er  the  vast  and  d<*sohite  plain, 

Witli  n^sohite  hearts  we  plod  our  way, 
Till  our  diritant  home  we  gain. 

And  when  at  last  we  stand 

On  the  wihi  Neva^iaV  ^ide, 
We*ll  look  afar  o  er  the  lovely  land 

And  the  heaving  oei»urd  tide. 

Of  the  past  we'll  thnik  no  more. 
When  our  journey's  <*nd  is  won. 

And  we'll  build  our  house  by  the  nn'ky 
shore 
Ot*  the  miglity  Oregon. 


A  stream  tluit  bean  hU  name  and  ilowi 
In  glimmering  gusheu  from  the  weiC, 

Makes  a  light  murmur  as  it  goes 
Beside  his  k>nely  pLice  of  n*L 

And  here  the  nilken  blue-grass  spriagi* 
Low  bentling  with  tlie  morning  dew; 

The  n*<!-bin]  in  the  thicket  singly 
And  blossoms  nod  of  varioQ«  kne. 

Oh,  Sparc  his  re^t !  oh,  Ie\'e1  not 

The  trees  whose  lioughs  above  it  pin 

Nor    break    the    turf    that    clothes  I 
spot, 
Nor  clog  the  rivuletV  winding  way. 

For  he  was  of  unblenching  eye. 
Honored  in  youth,  revered  in 

Of  princely  |K)rt  and  bearing  high^ 
And  brave,  and  eloquent,  and 

Ah !  seoni  not  tliat  a  tawny  skin 
WrapfHMl  his  strong  limbs  and 
l>n»ast : 

A  noble  soul  was  throned  within. 
As  the  pale  Saxon  e'er 


SENATCIIWINK'S  GKAVIl* 

II F.  sleeps  beneath  the  spread! n;r  ^h:ule, 
Wht-re  woods  and  widi'  ssivanna.'*  in«*et, 

Wht-n'  sloping  hiiL^  anmnd  have  mntle 
A  quift  valley,  gn^en  and  sweet. 


I)4>yond  the  broad  AtUintic  deept, 
In  mausoleums  rirh  and  %*asl« 

KartliV  early  kin;rs  and  heroes  slccpi» 
Waiting  the  angel's  trumpet-bbtC. 

A*«  proud  in  form  and  mien  was  he 
Who  ^h•«*|>s  U'neath  tha  verdant 
I  Anil  <hadow<'d  forth  as  glorioofly 
'     The  inia;:i*  of  the  eternal 


-  Tli('ir<*  i<  tilt'  inonumrntal  pile, 
!      With  lot IV  titles  ;rnived  on 


•  TwrlTe  or  flOMn  jmn  lUucv,  VviMt.  Iiwlxt^  wm  an  ttxi- '  "  Afl  h-n-  ttir  ■llVrn  M 

t  ■••lit  rhWf  of  the  CrUw  uf  l*uttA««ti'Uilf.  In  lliiii'-i«.  i*  fii'ilUr  t-i  t>ii-  «•'-(«  m  pM^t^,  vbo  b««« 
«"ij'<,\inc  mnrv  Inllutir*  and  •  frr^arrr  n)>u'arl'  n  tnr  taN  ^nurn;  tl.4t  t'  i  \  \iu--grA**  •prli»v<  ap  «' 
I  tit^  thnu  anjr  othiT.  TIm*  Imiian  tnuh  r.~.  uhn  kwv  hhn  (■■■  (  lt-i«  -tt^ii«-l  Tli<>iiith  thU  mmy  uoH  hr 
\  1 1!,  "-.i}  th.'tl  hv  vaa  a  truly  fcrrtit  man.  nn  orn'nr,  ii*i<l  a  «•  t  it  i*  r«  *•■  •  n  t|.at  tS*-  biui^ra«a  U  alamja 
•  im<  r  Uf  dWd  at  an  advanrtHl  ajp>.  in  tin*  .^t-ar  lOi.  mi;  wlifn  t*.«  ||i<liiri«  liatp  rnrampM. 
•»••  1  »a«  liurini  by  a  «id«II  ftnnni  wliirh  Imr*  Mn  hmiii',  i>  %ii-  l«-<  ii  ii  1.  1"T  n  f>-«i  ii»>«  TLfc*  Uad  af 
aii-I  wiMi  h  run^  thmuich  thr  iinuth-«'Ai>tiTn  |«rt  r>f  Burmu  a  xifi  an  |  riili  turf,  thk-k  alth  bladaa.  Ii 
c<>unt«  IIU  liuntinje-nrounfii  ai«  in  that  vklaltjr.  Tb«  it  i«  vrr)  ilif^n-nt  fpim  tlie  roaaoBraw 
mrruni«tanoe  allu«kd  to  In  the  lln*—  I  pniiittm.     [  7*4ii  mi>te  wa*  MnflMi  m  IMi.] 


liTI 


I   ».^. . 


JOHN    H.   BRYANT. 


197 


I  roof,  the  fretted  aisl 
i  onhonored  and  alone. 

loved  aronnd  him  lies, 
K)ming  plains  outspreading  far, 
vale,  and  boundless  skies, 
I,  and  cloud,  and  shining  star. 

icb  pathway  through  the  wood, 
unwanned  hy  sunshine's  gleam, 
brown  pheasant  led  her  brood, 
leer  came  to  drink  the  stream. 

gazed  from  yonder  height, 
iQsing  mid  the  chase  alone, 
realms  beneath  his  sight, 
idly  called  them  all  his  own. 

him  still  this  little  nook, 
mve  grasped  his  wide  domain, 
he  flowers,  the  grass,  the  brook, 
his  slumbering  dust  again. 


WINTER. 

id  been  a  calm  and  sunny  day, 
red  with  amber  was  the  sky  at 

clouds  at  length  had  rolled 

Y  in    furrows  on   the   eastern 
a; — 
arose  and  shed  a  glinmiering 

her  orb  a  misty  circle  lay. 

rost  glittered  on  the  naked  heath, 
r  of  distant  winds  was  loud  and 

eaves  rustled   in  each  passing 

e  gay  world  was  lost  in  quiet 


Such  was  the  time  when,  on  the  landscape 

brown, 
Through  a  December  air  the  snows  came 

down. 

The  morning  came,  the  dreary  mom  at  last, 
And  showed  the  whitened  waste.    The 
shivering  herd 

Lowed  on  the  hoary  meadow-ground,  and 
fast 
Fell  the  light  flakes  upon  the  earth  un- 
stirred ; 

The  forest  firs  with  glittering  snows  o'er- 
laid. 

Stood  like  hoar  priests  in  robes  of  white 
arrayed. 


UPWARD  I  ONWARD! 

Upward,  onward  is  our  watchword ; 

Though  the  winds  blow  good  or  ill, 
Though  the  sky  be  fair  or  stormy, 

These  shall  be  our  watchwords  stilL 

Upward,  onward,  in  the  battle 
Waged  for  freedom  and  the  right. 

Never  resting,  never  weary, 
Till  a  victoiy  crowns  the  fight 

Upward,  onward,  pressing  forward 
Till  each  bondman's  chains  shall  fall, 

Till  the  flag  that  floats  above  us, 
Liberty  proclaims  to  alL 

Waking  every  mom  to  duty. 
Ere  its  hours  shall  pass  away, 

Let  some  act  of  love  or  mercy 
Crown  the  labors  of  the  day. 

Lo  I  a  better  day  is  coming, 
Brighter  prospects  ope  before ; 

Spread  your  banner  to  the  breezes- 
Upward,  onward,  evermore  I 


ANNA  r.  DINNIES. 


Anna  Petre  Dinnies,  whose  name  de!«erycdl7  stands  in  the  front  noik  of « 
Western  female  p04.*U«,  both  in  point  of  time  and  excellence,  is  a  daughter  of  Jodj 
Shnckleford  of  South  Carolina,  in  whii*h  State  she  was  bom.  No  puns  were  spv 
in  her  early  training,  and  she  completed  her  education  at  a  Seminaij  of  high  gnk 
the  city  of  Charleston,  South  Csirolina,  under  the  care  of  David  Ramaej,  the  hii 
riun.  At  an  early  age  she  gave  indications  of  that  literary  ability  which  has  sii 
been  so  amply  realized. 

In  182G  she  became  engaged  in  a  liteniry  correspondence  with  John  C  Dinniei. 
St.  Louis,  Missouri.  This  excliangc  of  views  on  matters  of  literature  and  ta 
rii>ened  into  mutual  affection,  and  resulted  in  a  matrimonial  engagement,  althoogh  i 
parties  met  for  the  first  time  only  one  weeli  before  their  marriage.  That  thit  ram 
tic  marriage,  contrary  to  the  usual  course  of  such,  has  jrielded  a  happy  life,  no  « 
can  question  who  is  m^cjuainted  with  her  poems — ^they  are  inspired  not  only  bj  li 
tion,  but  unalloyed  happiness  also.  Upon  her  marriage,  Mrs.  Dinnies  came  to  I 
West  to  reside  with  her  husband  in  St.  Louis,  but  for  some  years  past  her  home  1 
been  in  New  Orleims. 

Airs.  Dinnies*s  poetical  career  lias  been  almost  entirely  identified  with  the  Wc 
Iler  earlier  poems  were  made  the  common  pro])erty  of  her  adopted  home,  by  bd 
extensively  copied  in  the  newspa{)ers  thn>ugliout  tlie  West  and  South.  They  «« 
published  in  the  HUnoU  Monthly^  o\i^T  the  .signature  of  Moina,  and  gained  the  ami 
a  reputation  entirely  on  tlieir  own  merits.  In  li54(>,  she  published  an  Qfaistni 
vuhime  entitled  ''The  Floral  Year."  It  contains  one  hundred  poi^ms  arranged 
twelve  gnnips — twelve  liouqucts  of  flowers  gath<*n'4i  in  tlit*  diirt*rent  months  of  I 
year.  Since  the  publication  of  this  vo)um«*  wi*  have  had  but  little  from  her  pea,  i 
are  we  informed  whet  lie  r  she  is  now  en<r:i;;rMl  in  any  lit<Tary  laftor*. 

Mrs.  Dinnies*s  writings  are  not  marked  by  that  exiilN*nmcH*  of  fancy  and  onnn 
wliirh  is  otlen  the  chief  characteristic  and  cliariii  of  Iht  sex,  but  they  are  io  foD 
pure  home  feeling  and  tenderness  that  we  prizt*  tlifm  niurh  more  than  if  thej  «i 
mere  product^  of  the  intellect.  Ilfr  fine>t  |K><'nis  an*  thn«<-  in  which  she  portrays  I 
domestic  affections.  She  n<'ver  fails  in  a  delicacy  of  sentiment  and  feeling  whi 
justly  entitles  her  to  a  place  among  the  mo^i  el<-g:int  |KH-ts  in  our  countij. 

In  the  I/etperian  for  April,  1);$3U,  William  I).  GalUigher,  of  her  poemi  *Weii 
I-ove"  and  **The  Wife,"  said: 

Tli<y  inii'hi'd  wum  and  f;lowing  th)m  the  huni^ii  h>-urt  u<l<ip  which  callrth  oato  thedaif 
a:itithi  r  CfUtury  iu«  wi>U  as  tu  tbut  of  iti*  uwu  duty  add  thev  an-  ar*  ^•<'n  and  bcaotiftU  aad  IM 
Idk  how,  an  whvn  thi'y  tlntt  wiKirklit  in  the  lit^ht— nay,  munt  m.  Tor  that  which  oumeth  of  tte  fr 
r  \  i  alrt  ii»fl('  fully  only  iu  the  lapw*  uf  time 

(  198) 


1830-40.] 


ANNA   P.   DINNIES. 


199 


MY  HUSBANDS  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR. 

Thou  stnmge,  unbidden  guest !  from  whence 

Thus  early  hast  thou  come  ? 
And  wherefore  ?     Rude  intruder,  hence ! 

And  seek  some  fitter  home ! 
These  rich  young  locks  are  all  too  dear, — 
Indeed,  thou  must  not  linger  here  I 

Go !  take  thy  sober  aspect  where 
The  youthful  cheek  is  fading, 

Or  find  some  iurrow'd  brow,  which  care 
And  passion  have  been  shading ; 

And  add  thy  sad,  malignant  trace, 

To  mar  the  aged  or  anguish'd  face  I 

Thou  wilt  not  go  ?  then  answer  me, 
And  tell  what  brought  thee  here  1 

^ot  one  of  ail  thy  tribe  I  see 
Beside  thyself  appear. 

And  through  these  bright  and  clustering 
curls 

Thou  shinest,  a  tiny  thread  of  pearls. 

Thou  art  a  moralist !  ah,  well ! 

And  comest  from  Wisdom's  land, 
A  few  sage  axioms  just  to  tell  ? 

Well !  well !  I  understand : — 
Old  Truth  has  sent  thee  here  to  boar 
The  maxims  which  we  fain  must  hear. 

,    And  now,  as  I  observe  thee  nearer, 
Thou'rt  pretty — very  pretty— quite 
As  glossy  and  as  fair — nay,  fairer 

Than  these,  but  not  so  bright ; 
And  since  thou  came  Truth's  messenger, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  and  speak  of  her. 

She  says  thou  art  a  herald,  sent 
In  kind  and  friendly  warning, 

To  mix  with  locks  by  Beauty  blent, 
(The  fair  young  brow  adorning), 

And  'midst  their  wild  luxuriance  taught 

To  show  thyself,  and  waken  thought 

That  thought,  wliich  to  the  dreamer  preaches 
A  lesson  stem  as  true. 


That  all  things  pass  away,  and  teaches 

How  youth  must  vanish  too  I 
And  thou  wert  sent  to  rouse  anew 
This  thought,  whene'er  thou  meet'st  the 
view. 

And  comes  there  not  a  whispering  sound, 
A  low,  faint,  murmuring  breath. 

Which,  as  thou  movest,  floats  around 
Like  echoes  in  their  death  ? 

**Time   onward  sweeps,  youth  flies,  pre- 
pare"— 

Such  is  thine  errand.  First  Gray  Hair. 


WEDDED  LOVE. 

Come,  rouse  thee,  dearest ! — 'tis  not  well 

To  let  the  spirit  brood 
Thus  darkly  o'er  the  cares  that  swell 

Life's  current  to  a  flood. 
As  brooks,  and  torrents,  rivers,  all. 
Increase  the  gulf  in  which  they  fall, 
Such  thoughts,  by  gathering  up  the  rills 
Of  lesser  griefs,  spread  real  ills ; 
And,  with  their  gloomy  shades,  conceal 
The  land-marks  Hope  would  else  roveaL 

Come,  rouse,  thee,  now — I  know  thy  mind, 

And  would  its  strength  awaken ; 
Proud,  gifted,  noble,  ardent,  kind — 

Strange  thou  shouldst  be  tlms  shaken  I 
But  rouse  afresh  each  energy. 
And  be  what  heaven  intended  thee ; 
Throw  from  thy  thoughts  this  wearying 

weight. 
And  prove  thy  spirit  firmly  great : 
I  would  not  see  thee  bend  below 
The  angry  storms  of  earthly  woe. 

Full  well  I  know  the  generous  soul 
Which  warms  thee  into  hfe, 

Each  spring  which  can  its  powers  control, 
Famihar  to  thy  Wife — 


200 


ANNA   P.    DINNIKS. 


[inMt 


For  deemest  thou  die  had  8too[)ed  to  bind 
Her  fate  unto  a  common  mind? 
The  eagle-like  ambition,  nursed 
From  childhood  in  her  heart,  had  first 
C(>n:«umed,  with  its  Promethean  Hume, 
The  shrine  that  t^unk  her  m  to  shame. 

Then  rouse  thee,  d<*arest,  from  the  dream 

That  fetters  now  thy  j>owers : 
Sliake  off  this  gloom — lIoi>e  ^hedd  a  beam 

To  gild  each  cloud  that  lower&» ; 
And  though  at  pre>ent  se<'nis  Hi  far 
The  wished-for  goal — a  guiding  star, 
With  |K*aceful  ray,  would  light  tlu^  on. 
Until  it8  utmost  lN)unds  1n«  won : 
That  quenchleiW  ray  thou'lt  evej*  prove, 
In  fond,  undying,  Wedded  Love. 


THE  WIKR 

I  COULD  have  stemm'd  misfortune*8  tide, 

And  borne  the  rich  one's  sneer. 
Have  braved  the  haughty  glance  of  pride, 

Nor  shtnl  a  single  t<.'ar : 
I  could  have  smiled  on  every  blow 

From  Life's  full  quiver  thrown. 
While  I  might  gaze  on  thee,  and  know 

I  should  not  be  ^  alone.** 

I  could — I  think  I  could  have  brook*d, 

KVn  for  a  time,  that  thou 
l')H)n  my  fading  fact*  hadst  ItMik'd 

With  It'ss  of  love  than  now ; 
F(»r  then  I  should  at  l«':i.«t  have  felt 

The  sw<'et  ho|N'  still  my  own, 
Ti)  will  thee  back,  and,  ^ihilst  I  dwelt 

On  rurth,  nt»t  be  ''alone." 

But  thus  to  M'e,  fn»m  day  to  (Liy« 
Thy  brighti'ning  «*yf  and  chcrk. 

Ami  watch  thy  lifi'->anils  wa.-te  away, 
rnnumlH'n'tl,  sl(»wly,  meek ; 


To  meet  thy  8milei»  of  tendemeUi 

And  catch  the  feeble  tone 
Of  kindneds,  ever  breathed  to  bleni 

And  leel,  FIl  be  '^akme;*— 

To  mark  thy  strength  each  hour  decay, 

And  yet  thy  hopes  grow  atnmgcr. 
As,  H11(h1  with  heavenward  tnut,  they  nj, 

^  Earth  nmy  nut  claim  thee  kNiger;" 
Nay,  (h*art^t,  *tis  too  much — this  bcait 

Must  break,  when  tliou  art  gone; 
It  must  not  be ;  we  may  nut  part ; 

I  could  nut  live  ^aluue!*" 


UNTOLD  FEELIVGa 

Where  the  wiuinl-power  to  show 
What  may  cause  the  tear  to  flow — 
Wlmt  nmy  wake  the  paMing  fiighy 
Pah'  the  cheek,  and  dim  the  eye? 

There  are  chonls  in  many  a 
To(»  sacretl  to  be  rudely  prew'd« 
Which  thrill  to  memory's  Uracb 
Telling  of  blissful  houn  bj-gooe ; 
A  silly  ji>t,  a  I'areless  wunl« 
A  siinfile  sound,  a  singing  bird^ 
A  falling  h*af,  the  time  of  year. 
May  wake  the  sigh,  or  start  the 
Thru  hallowM  \h*  the  hidden  leelin^ 
Wh(*n  the  tear  is  softly  stealing; 
Let  no  colt]  obM-r^-ance  tell 
When'  tli«'  limpid  ofTering  fell; 
To  all  it  is  not  given  to  know 
Th<;  ImiIhi  of  <'omfort  to  bestow ; 
Nor  all  have  jHiWer  to  underataod 
Kmotions  ^ welling  o*er  oumnand* 
Alark  not  the  >igli,  then,  deep  as  low, 
Mark  not  the  marble  cheek  and  broV| 
Utit  let  tht:  t«'ar  in  Mlence  flow 
O'er  >i\\\  nnh-mlnTM  joy  or  woe^ 
A  bit •>-'»!  n'liff*,  ill  nien'y  given^ 
A  iHilniy  fount,  wliose  spring  is  M 


EDMUND   FLAGG 


■"lagg  was  bom  in  the  town  of  Wicasset,  Maine,  on  the  twenty-fourth 
iber,  1815.  He  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College,  in  the  class  of  1835, 
ely  thereafter  emigrated,  with  his  mother  and  sister,  to  Louisville,  Ken- 
he  taught  the  classics  for  a  few  months  to  a  class  of  bojs ;  but  having 
Q  arrangement  to  contribute  to  the  columns  of  the  Louisville  Journal, 
ey,  through  Illinois  and  Missouri,  and  wrote  a  series  of  letters,  which 
,  published  in  two  volumes  by  Harper  and  Brothers,  in  New  York, 
i  of  «  The  Far  West." 

1  1838,  Mr.  Flagg  read  law  at  St.  Louis,  with  Hamilton  Gamble,  after- 
f  the  Supreme  Court  of  Missouri.  While  reading  law,  he  was,  for  a 
ditor  of  the  St.  Louis  Daily  Commercial  Bulletin,  In  the  early  part  of 
,  he  was  associated  with  George  D.  Prentice  in  the  management  of  the 
OS  Letter.  On  account  of  ill  health,  he  abandoned  the  News  Letter,  and 
e  practice  of  law  with  Sargent  S.  Prentiss,  at  Vicksburg,  Mississippi, 
sar  1842  he  was  again  an  editor,  at  Marietta,  Ohio.     While  conducting 

that  town,  he  wrote  two  novels,  "  Carrero,  or  the  Prime  Minister,"  and 
^alois  " — which  were  published  in  New  York.  Returning  to  St.  Louis 
B'lagg  became  the  editor  of  the  Evening  Gazette,  and  was  for  several 
:er  of  the  Courts  "  of  St.  Louis  county.  He  wrote  at  this  period  sev- 
vhich  were  successfully  performed  at  Cincinnati,  Louisville,  St  Louis, 
ans. 

r.  Flagg  was  appointed  Secretary  to  Edward  A.  Hannegan,  Minister  to 
pent  nearly  two  years  in  Europe.  On  his  return  to  the  United  States 
le  practice  of  law  at  St.  Louis,  but  in  1850  was  selected  by  President 
jnsul  to  the  port  of  Venice.  In  that  **  City  of  the  Sea "  he  remained 
then  returned  to  St  Louis,  where  he  completed  a  work  begun  in  Europe 
e  City  of  the  Sea" — published  in  New  York  in  1853,  in  two  illus- 
;.  It  comprises  a  history  of  that  celebrated  capital,  from  the  invasion 
in  1797,  to  its  capitulation  to  Radetzsky,  after  the  siege  of  1848-9.  In 
%gg  contributed  sketches  on  the  West  to  "The  United  States  Illus- 
c  published  by  A.  Meyer,  New  York.  He  is  now  the  chief  clerk  of  a 
ureau  in  the  Department  of  State  at  Wasliington. 
s  entitled  to  honorable  rank  among  the  authors  of  America,  as  a  prose 
mgh  not  distinguished  as  a  poet  has  climbed  high  enough  on  the  Pap- 

to  be  fairly  entitled  to  respectful  consideration  among  the  Poets  of  the 
etrical  compositions  were  chiefly  written  for  the  Louisville  Journal,  and 
rr,  while  he  was  its  editor.  A  prominent  place  is  given  him  in  a  hand- 
entitled  "The  Native  Poets  of  Maine" — edited  by  S.  Herbert  Lancey, 

at  Bangor  in  1854. 

(201  ) 


202 


EDMUND   FLAGG. 


I 


SMILFS  OFT  DECEIVE. 

An,  do  not  fqj  the  heart  is  light, 

And  free  IVom  every  care, 
Because  the  eye  beams  cahu  and  bright, 

And  only  peact?  is  there. 
An»iind  the  monumental  stone 

The  jmyest  flowers  may  creep— 
The  breast  nuiv  wither  chill  and  lone, 

Yet  smiles  the  brow  may  keep. 

Unseen — unknown — the  ehM*tric  dart 

Sleeps  in  the  n)lling  cloud ; — 
So  sloefM  within  the  stricken  heart 

The  grief  it  most  would  shnmd. 
The  sunniest  smile  may  often  glow 

Where  sorrows  gloomiest  lower; — 
U|>on  the  sky  will  hang  the  l)ow. 

Though  all  is  shade  and  shower. 

Soft  summer's  h-avcs  are  fre>h  and  fair. 

But  not  so  bright  an^  they. 
As  when  on  Autunui's  misty  air 

The  forest-rainlH)ws  phiy. 
Fair  un  the  ch«*ek  is  Ix'auty's  blush, 

M'hfre  rose  and  lilv  nu»et ; 
And  yt't  cun>uni{)tion*s  h(*ctic  flu>h, 

Though  sa*l,  is  far  more  swfct. 

*Ti!<  not — *iis  not  the  clam'rous  groan  — 

The  queniluus  coniphiint — 
Tiie  gushing  tear — the  t'nMjut'nt  moim 

Tliat  speaks  the  souTs  hunent. 
Sorrow's  a  pr«>iid — a  Itmrly  thing, 

Antl  never  sttnips  to  niotn'n : — 
The  Spartan's  mantle  o'er  tlie  sting 

It  ('hi>i»s,  and  bleeds  alon«.*. 


Then  think  not,  tboagb  the  biof 

From  sha^e  of  gkMMn  or  ewe, 
The  breast  is  a^  a  summer  set, 

And  happiness  dwells  there. 
Ah,  think  not,  though  the  seemin; 

Upon  the  cheek  may  play. 
And  on  the  lip  the  jest  may  dan 

TtuU  grief  is  far  awaj. 


Then»  oft  is  wo<'  which  nt»ver  we^^j 

Tears  which  an»  never  she«l ; — 
Deep  in  the  soul  th«'ir  fountain  sli*e|>s, 

When  lu»|M*  and  joy  are  fled. 
Yet  who  wiMild  a«k  liie  >tagnant  breast, 

Whieh  ehilK  nni — ni'ver  gl<»ws? 
Who  Would  not  >piini  that  uavelc^s  rest 

Wliieh  neither  ehb-i  xutv  flows? 


THE  MAGNETIC  TELBGRAF 

SCIES< 

With    her  twin-sister,   Art,   hath 

th*  Empyrean ! 
Science,  like  the  dread  angel  of  tl 

alypse, 
I  lath  destined  Sfmce  and  Time  t 

more! 
From  the  immortal  mind  now  k 

thought, 

AikL  yet  uns|>oken.  on  the  lightniuj 

Ginlleth  the  globe!     Away, away 

I  The  magic  line  of  tliought  and  fee 

Over  land,  o'er  sea,  o*er  nnoantain, 

and  vale, 
Thn>tigh  foi-est  dense,  and  darkest 

ness, 
Mid  stonn  and  tempest,  fleets  the 

s[N'll ; 
Then  to  its  home,  through  earth's  i 

trails  siM»t»ds 
Haekwanl  in  Hery  circuit  to  ita  rest 
I  While  fourth's  gnM*n  lx>som  doth  ittel 
I  Magnetic  flame  to  light  the  flashin| 
I  No  more  the  viewh'ss  courien  of  th 
I  An'  <*mldems  of  the  messengers  of 
'The  >|MM*il  of  sound,  the  speed  of  lij 
I  pas><*tl. 

The  s|H-ed  of  thought  ^  mind's  i 
I  i'ini — 

And  th*  (unnipotent  power  of  Fancj' 
Alone  can  rival  the  electric  chann! 


CHARLES  A.  JONES. 


;  of  the  least  known  of  Western  writers,  to  the  present  generation  of  readers, 
3et,  who,  in  1835,  gave  promise  of  much  activity  and  distinction  in  metrical 
ire.  He  had  then  written  his  name  high  in  the  newspapers ;  published  his 
J,*  and  taken  his  first  literary  degree.  Between  the  years  1836  and  1839  he 
frequently  for  ttie  Oincinnati  Mirror^  and  in  1840  contributed  several  of  the 

hereafter  quoted  for  the  Cincinnati  Message^  but  about  that  time  the  inexor- 
w  of  bread-and-butter  necessity  drew  him  from  the  flowery  slopes  of  Parnassus 

dry  regions  of  Blackstone  and  the  bar.  Afler  he  began  the  practice  of  law 
:;hed  the  harp  but  seldom,  and  then  in  secret. 

rles  A.  Jones  is  to  be  honored  above  the  generality  of  Western  writers,  because 
>lored  extensively,  and  made  himself  well  acquainted  with  Western  character, 

the  West  found  the  theme  of  his  essay,  the  incident  of  his  story,  and  the  inspi- 
of  his  song.  His  principal  poem  is  a  stirring  narrative  of  the  exploits  of  the 
utlaws,  who,  in  the  infancy  of  the  settlement  of  the  West,  had  their  common 
vous  in  the  celebrated  Cave-in-Rock  on  the  Ohio.  The  subjects  of  many  of  his 
productions  are  the  rivers,  the  mounds,  the  Indian  heroes,  and  the  pioneers  of  the 
iippi  Valley. 

five  or  six  years  previous  to  his  admission  to  the  bar,  Mr.  Jones  wrote  a  great 
r  the  newspapers  and  periodicals  of  the  West  His  habits  of  composition  were 
lely  rapid  and  careless,  however,  and  he  would  never  undergo  the  labor  of 
n.  The  hasty  production  of  an  hour  was  sent  to  the  press  with  all  its  sins  upon 
id.     The  consequence  of  this  rapid  work,  and  quick  printing,  has  shown  itself, 

almost  total  oblivion  into  which  nearly  all  JSIr.  Jones's  productions  have  sunk, 
.  many  of  them  contain  fine  thoughts,  beautifully  and  forcibly  expressed.     It 

be  easy  to  gather  many  flowers  in  the  broad  fields  of  what  he  wrote,  by  very 

running  over  them.  In  the  Western  Literary  Journal  of  1836,  is  a  poem  of 
I  hundred  lines,  probably  dashed  off  in  an  evening,  which  affords  several  worth 
;.  I  content  myself  with  one.  The  poem  is  called  "  Marriage  k  la  Mode,"  and 
is  the  forced  union  of  a  lovely  poor  girl  to  a  rich  rake,  who  wastes  her  bloom, 

her  heart  and  becomes  estranged  from  her.  She  hopes  to  regain  his  affection ; 
3  poet  says : 

"  Bear  back  the  lightning  to  its  cload, 

Recall  the  rose-leaf's  vanished  hue, 
And  give  the  dead  man  in  his  shroad 

The  breath  of  life  he  lately  drew  ; 
Then  to  the  bosom  seek  to  bring 
The  love  that  once  has  taken  wing!" 

lUaw  and  other  poems,  dedicated  to  Morgan  Neyille.    Jodah  Drake,  pnbliaher,  Cincinnati,  1886.  18mo. ,  72  pp. 

(  203  ) 


20G 


CHARLES   A.   JONES. 


[IK 


Startled  the  wild-fowl  from  iu  sedgy  nest. 

And  hruke  the  wild  deer's  and  the  pan- 
ther's rest. 
The  lordly  oaks  went  down 

Before  the  ux — the  cane-brake  is  a  town  : 
The  Imrk  canoe  no  more 
Cilidcs  noiseless  from  the  shore ; 

And.  sole  memorial  of  a  nation's  doom, 

Amid  the  works  of  art  rises  this  lonely 
tomb. 

It  too  must  {tass  away : 

Barbaric  liands  will  lay 
Its  holy  ruins  level  with  the  plain, 
And  rear  upon  its  site  some  goo<lly  i'ane. 

It  seemeth  to  upbraid 
The  white  man  for  the  ruin  he  has  made. 

And  soon  the  spade  and  mattock  must 

Invade  the  sleepers*  buried  dast. 
And  bare  their  bones  to  sacrilegious  eyes, 
And  send  them  forth  t^jme  joke-eollec tor's 
prize. 


THE  DESERTED  FORGE. 

The  sounds  are  gone  which  once   were 
heard  within  yon  lonely  hut, 

On  ru«ty  hinge  the  windows  hang,  the  cran- 
nied door  is  shut, 

And  round  aUout  u|H)n  the  floor  lies  many 
a  rusty  shoe. 

And  broken  bars,  and  heaps  of  coal,  the 
lowly  forg«»s  strew.  1 

No  more  is  heani  the  blacksmith's  voice  j 
en«ra«:t»d  in  merry  sonjr» 

Wliii'h  to  the  {mssing  tnivelt'r  came,  at  in- 
tervals along ;  j 

As  all  the  <lay,  une«'aMngly,  he  plied  the, 
liaiiiiiKTV  >tn>ke,  j 

Wliiili,  from  the  htw  and  humble  roof,  con- 


Neglected  now  it  lies  along  the  httfjc 

block. 
Which,  day  by  day,  and  niglit  bj  i 

was  shaken  by  its  shods. 
No  mon*  ap|H*arelli,  smooth  and  brigh 

polished  anvil's  fiioe, 
For  over  all  decay  is  seen,  to  ited 

mournful  pace ; 
The  cobwebs  liang  upon  the  waD,  ■» 

has  gathered  there ; 
The  spi<lers  now  will  reign  flout  i 

tlieir  gloomy  Imir. 

The  bellows'  sound  no  more  wiD  gro 

ear  of  passers  by, 
With  noise  as  of  a  distant  stonn,  ^ipi 

ing  swiftly  nigh ; 
It  long  has  fallen  from  its  place.  Hi 

ments  strew  the  floor. 
And  now  its  wreck  akme  can  tell  w 

has  been  before ; 
And  every  bi*eeze  that  whistles  hj 

sw(M*ping  on  its  way, 
With  mournful  voice  prochums  the 

Time  worketh  on  his  prey ; 
And  iis  it  {Misses  o'er  the  wreck  anND 

cabin  spmad. 
Seems,  &«   it    sought,  to  waken   • 

which  liave  forever  fled. 

Nor  more  within  the  ready  trough  ispb 

the  hissing  steel, 
For  it  is  rotting  as  it  standa— iu  ridi 

tale  reveal ; 
And  round  about  to  every  spol  no 

the  cindt-rs  flv. 
Which  sparkle  brightly  as  thej  go 

then  foH'Ver  die ; 
Hut  all  is  lone  and  dreary  there^  and 

the  hum  of  life 


limuil  tM'lioes  wok».*. 


The  fnrL''''r's  now  des«»rted  shop  will  i 
inon*  Ik.'  rife ; 
T!n'  nurrv  mihl'.  .'iii'l  li:iMinii'r's  click,  an*  An:l.  miu*  bv  one,  the  raflera  roond 

iinw  I'lMivi-r  (I'rr.  I  sink  bv  >low  decnv, 

IIi>  \«i'cr  i*.  )iii-lii<I,  hi^  arm  can  wield  the  I'ntil  t-aeli  >v^\i  and  vestige  there  shi 
nia-^^y  ?h  d;:e  no  nion*;  I  have  |i;lsm-«1  away. 


.] 


CHARLES    A.   JONES. 


207 


to  the  honest  blacksmith,  no  cares 
sturb  his  breast, 

I  the  day  of  doom  shall  come,  light 
\  his  lonelj  rest ; 

les  lie  beneath  the  shade  of  yonder 

reading  tree, 

'er  the  sod  above  him  wave  its 

anches  mournfully; 

ly  his  lowly  resting-place  his  vacant 

>me  is  seen, 

ver  more  for  him  will  be  the  things 

dich  once  have  been ; 

unds  which  were  to  him  more  sweet 

an  music's  soothing  strain, 

he  ear  that  loved  to  hear,  will  never 

II  again. 


THE  CLOUDS. 

clouds !  the  clouds !  how  beautiful 
bey  move  upon  the  air, 
1  golden  wings  dyed  in  the  springs 
f  light  the  planets  bear ; 

onward  singly  sailing, 
ike  eagles,  in  the  breeze, 
1  like  a  gallant  gathering 
f  ships  upon  the  seas. 

r  glorious  are  their  changes ! 
ow  in  pyramids  they  rise, 
,  masses  piled  on  masses, 
hey  tower  to  the  skies : 
^  rising  like  the  glaciers, 
heir  summits  white  as  snow, 
le  in  the  sun's  bright  blushings 
hey  beautifully  glow. 

r  terrible  !  how  terrible, 
^hen,  gloomy,  thick  and  dark, 
y  form  their  squadrons  o'er  the  sea, 
bove  a  gallant  bark, 
hurl  their  lightning  arrows 
eep  in  the  hissing  waves, 


While  'mid  the  mountain-barrows 
The  howling  tempest  raves: 

When  from  their  thronged  battalions 

The  thunders  wildly  sweep, 
And  from  the  summits  of  the  waves 

The  shrieking  echoes  leap ; 
And  mounting  on  the  tempest's  wings, 

The  billows  lash  the  sky. 
As  if  the  fiends  of  storm  and  wave 

Their  battles  waged  on  high. 

How  beautiful  their  changes, 

Like  visions  in  a  dream. 
When  on  their  rugged  surfaces 

The  moon's  bright  glories  gleam ; 
When  wooed  by  gentle  zephyrs, 

In  silver  flakes  they  glide. 
Like  flocks  of  sea-gulls  sporting 

Upon  the  wave  in  pride. 

Now  forming  into  castles. 

With  battlements  and  moats, 
While  from  the  towering  turrets 

A  crimson  banner  floats ; 
Then  as  the  gentle  breeze  comes  by, 

The  fabric  melts  away. 
And  takes  the  form  of  legions 

In  battle's  stem  array. 

I  love  those  storm-girt  wanderers, 

In  darkness  and  in  gloom, 
When,  curtained  o'er  the  vaulted  sky, 

Their  thunders  shake  its  dome ; 
I  love  them,  when  their  brightness 

Is  borrowed  of  the  sun. 
When,  as  the  day  departeth, 

The  twilight  blush  comes  on. 

But  still  more  do  I  love  them 

For  the  gentle  rains  they  bring, 
That  summon  into  life  and  bloom 

The  buds  and  flowers  of  spring ; 
And  clothe  the  vales  and  mountains 

With  robes  of  living  green ; 
And  bid  the  sparkling  fountains 

Whisper  joy  to  every  scene. 


•JilS 


CHAKLKS    A.  JONES. 


[l»3Mi 


Tliermopyls  and  MjiratboOv 
TECUM>En.  Though  claiwic  curth.  can  boftrt  no  mow 

Wi.KUE  roll,  the  dark  and  turbid  Thames  ^  ^'-'''^  '"•"^"  '^T  ^^  """ 

ui         ^       s\       ..1         r  ...    »-  *u^  «««««- 1  When  in  a  ipillunt  nation'^  lant 
Sl<'«'|)s  on(%  than  whos<s  tt?w  arc  the  names;  ^ 

«,  ^.       i*  «i     1  I        .  i     An<l  <leu(]lit'st  ittniecle,  fur  il 

More  worthy  of  the  Ivr*  and  song ;         |  ,  .. 


Yft  oVr  whos<^  8|M)1  of  lone  re|H>!*e 
No  (nl^rim  eyes  are  >efn  to  weep ; 

And  no  memorial  marhlf  tlin)ws 
Its  >hadow  when*  liis  a.she8  sleep. 

Stop,  stran^jer  I  then*  T«Tunis4'h  lies ; 

Hehold  tht*  lowly  n'?*tin;;-plaee 
Of  nil  that  of  the  hen)  the.'* ; 

Tin.'  Ca'sar — Tully,  ol'  his  niee, 
WlurM*  arm  of  stnMi;rth,  and  iivry  tongue, 

llavr  won  him  an  innnortal  name. 
And  fnim  the  mouths  of  millions  wrung 

Krluetant  tribute  to  hi>  fame. 

Sioj) — for  *iis  plor}'  rlainis  tijy  tfur  I 

Tni«*  worth  lHdon«:>  to  all  mankind  ; 
And  he  whose  aslw"*  shnnlnT  hen% 

Tltnii;:li  man  in  form  w:t<  ^od  hi  mind. 
What  nialtrr  he  was  not  liki*  tlie<% 

In  ran*  and  ndttr ;  *ti>  the  s<iul 
That  marks  man%  truf  divinity ; 

Tiirn  let  not  shame  thv  tears  eontrol. 


lU  0V1U 

|Tt*i*umtiehV  fiery  bpiril  piusMfd 

III  blood,  and  sought  ite  Fmtht^*  UiraDe 


Oh.  MiAly  falls  the  summer  dew. 

The  tearK  of  heaveii,  upon  his  Md, 
For  he  in  lite  and  death  was  true, 

lii»th  to  his  country  and  hu  God ; 
For  oh,  if  Ciod  to  luan  has  given. 

From  his  bright  home  beyond  the 
One  feeling  that*H  akin  to  heaven, 

Tis  his  who  for  his  countr}'  dirs^ 


fv: 


liest,  warrior,  rent !— Tliough  not  a  dirpv 

Is  thin**.  lM*side  the  wailing  bla»t. 
Time  eaini(»i  in  oblivion  merge 

Thf  light  thy  star  of  gloi^*  cast ; 
While  heave  yon  high  hills  to  the  ikj, 

Wliil(>  nill>  yon  dark  and  turlad  rivtf, 
Thv  name  and  fame  ("an  never 

Whom  Fn'edom  loves,  will  live 


Art  ilion  a  patriot? — so  wa-*  he! 

Hi^  l»n':f»t  was  Fn*»Mliim'>  liolie<it  >hrine;; 
And  a-*  ihou  iN'ndiM  tlirn-  thv  kn«*e, 

Hi-  >].irit  will  unite  with  thin<*. 
All  that  a  man  ran  )ii\*'  Im*  g:iv«* ; 

Ili^  lili" :  the  eountrv  of*  his  sin*s 
Fnun  tli»'  oppri'SMir's  gra^p  ti»  sivr : 

In  \alii — ipK'iu'ird  art'  lii-^  naliunV  tin'> 


KNOWLEIKiE. 


L 


Art  tlioii  a  Mildicr  ?  dor.t  thou  not 
()*ir  di-«  lis  rhivalrif  lovr  Ut  mux*? 

Ill  n-  -i;i\  lliy  .*!i'p what   ln!t«T  >\Hti 

(''•■iM-!  li.oii  tor  roiiffiMpIation  cIkn^h*? 

'I'll     •;ir'!:  'mm  alli  i-  l:oI\   i:r««ii!hl ; 

TiM'i    i_'i  :'\  •►''T  i-af!i  litilf  ninnixl. 
Fur  ill*  \  ar«'  no  i;:niil»li"  ;:ni>»-*« 


TiiK  f'xeeHent  in  knowledge  walk  the  md 
Tnlikf  to  e«»mmoii  men.     Their  giftfdgui 
H( -holds  a  thou>and  things  invisible 
To  n»min(»ii  eyes.     Familiar  spirits  wai 
r  I  Mill  thrir  >tcps  with  new  and 

v«'alin;r* ; 
Thf  air  i^  filh-d  with  sounds  thai 

the  m'Hm-  ; 

The  bne/e  hito  holier  frci^Jineiiy  and  ik 

skv, 
Willi  ii>  eternity  of  stars,  imparts 
I  to  \\(»ndi-r^  to  them,  till  the  fleshy  fink 
That  liind«  to  earth  is  hidden  in  the  ibomh 
IThat  bear^  the  spirit  nean*r  to  ita 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


is  Kttle  in  the  mere  biography  of  Mrs.  Welby  which  distinguishes  her  from 
f  her  sex.  Her  life  was  passed  placidly  and  quietly  in  the  performance  of 
es  which  belonged  to  her  station.  She  was  bom  on  the  third  of  February, 
$t  Michael's,  in  Maryland,  a  small  village  on  Miles  River,  an  arm  of  Chesa- 
y,  whence  she  was  I'emoved  when  an  infant  to  Baltimore.     She  resided  in  or 

city  till  1834,  when  she  removed  to  Louisville,  Kentucky.  It  was  at  this 
ce  that  her  poetic  genius  first  became  known  to  the  public,  and  there  she 
is  quite  probable  that  she  had  written  previous  to  this  time,  but  none  of  those 
ems  have  been  preserved.  The  history  of  her  life  does  not  furnish  any  clew 
nius.  Her  education  was  not  thorough,  her  mind  was  not  disciplined  by 
p  was  her  reading  at  all  extensive ;  yet,  in  spite  of  all  these  disadvantages, 
y  is  perfect  in  rhythm  and  harmony,  and  is  never  blemished  by  any  fault 
rhetoric  or  of  grammar.  In  the  most  impressible  part  of  her  earlier  life 
nirrounded  by  a  great  deal  that  was  grand  and  beautiful  in  nature,  and  most 
•etic  images  refer  to  those  surroundings.  Her  first  publication  was  in  1837, 
:  then  hardly  eighteen  years  old.  It  was  printed  in  the  Louuville  Journal, 
paper  George  D.  Prentice  was  and  is  the  editor.  This  accomplished  gentle- 
self  a  poet  of  admirable  ability,  took  great  pains  to  develop  her  poetic  faculty 
xnire  for  her  a  fair  hearing  before  the  public  She  had,  however,  very  little 
ny  adventitious  aids  to  establish  her  in  the  highest  favor  with  her  readers. 
*  earliest  appearance  before  the  public,  the  sweetness  and  naturalness  of  her 
caught  every  ear  and  warmed  every  heart  They  reached  all  the  better 
f  her  readers  because  they  so  evidently  flowed  fresh  from  her  own.  Her 
IS  the  result  of  a  pure  afflatus,  and  had  never  been  measured  by  the  frigid 
rt.  She  sang  because  it  was  given  her  to  sing ;  her  melodies  were  like  the 
the  birds — they  were  the  simple  outgushing  of  her  own  pure  nature.  She 
ach  the  higher  forms  of  art,  nor  did  she  attempt  them.  Her  song  was  a 
iasare,  learned  of  the  trill  of  the  brooklet,  of  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  or  of 
and  solemn  murmur  of  the  ocean.  It  is  not  asserted  that  Mrs.  Welby's 
faultless,  but  there  is  in  it  that  natural  charm  of  innocence  and  grace  which 
to  but  few  writers.     Mr.  Poe  said  of  her,  in  one  of  his  peculiar  criticisms, 

had  nearly  -all  the  imagination  of  Maria  del  Occidente,  with  more  refined 
d  nearly  all  the  passion  of  Mrs.  Norton,  with  a  nicer  ear,  and,  what  is  sur- 
qual  art     Yery  few  American  poets  are  at  all  comparable  with  her,"  he 

tlie  true  poetic  qualities.  As  for  our  poetesses,  few  of  them  approach  her." 
high  praise,  and,  though  perhaps  somewhat  overstrained,  is  not  entirely 
L     Her  imagination  and  refinement  of  taste  were,  perhaps,  her  most  promi- 

(209) 

li 


:!10  AMKLIA    H.    WKLUY.  [I«JM1 

iK'nt  qualities,  and  her  nii*ety  of  car  was  none  the  Ic^s  remarkable  in  view  of  tlie  fivi  ' 
that  it  had  never  been  cultivated  by  the  Htudj  of  nny  modeL 

jliliv.  TW'ibyV  |K)etr}'  grew  more  rapidly  into  public  favor,  and  found  admifatiaD  Mi 
appreciation  among  a  larger  number  of  people  tluui  tluit  of  any  author  withiD  o« 
knowle<lge.  Hardly  had  her  fingers  touched  the  lyre  ere  lier  strain*  were  can^  if 
by  molody-loveni  throughout  the  Union,  and  sung  in  ever}'  peopled  raUej  and  edHd 
fn^m  every  sunny  hill-side  of  our  va<t  domain.  Her  fKH'tiy  wast  of  a  chancier  ttac 
could  not  fail  to  reach  every  heart  It  was  natund,  free  fn>m  all  morbidneM ;  fall  d 
gnice,  of  delicacy,  and  of  elegance.  While  it  did  not  reach  beyond  the  cmipuhw 
Hi<»n  and  the  sympathy  of  the  humble<it  individual,  while  her  range  of  rakjecU  m 
confined  to  the  **every-<laynei»»  of  thi»j  work -day  world,"  yet  her  tmUmcmof 
was  80  absolutely  poetic,  mid  withal  tK>  naive  and  originali  as  to  excite  the 
of  the  most  cultivated  and  refined. 

The  first  collected  edition  of  her  |>oem»  was  published  at  Boston  in  1S45, 
although  a  Lirge  number  of  copies  were  embraced  in  it,  it  was  readilj  difpoMsdrf 
within  a  very  few  months,  and  the  demand  for  the  work  was  still  nnahaled.     In  ha 
than  twelve  months  aAer  the  i^^suo  of  her  volume,  overtures  were  made  to  Mrk  Wcfty 
by  some  of  the  l>e.st  publishers  in  the  country  for  a  new  edition.     Hie  AppldoMwai 
the  su(xt;ssful  com|)etitors  for  the  prize,  and  in  ld4G  they  published 
Sin(*e  that  time  edition  after  e<lition  has  been  issued,  till  already 
have  appeared  and  found  ready  sale,  and  the  demand  for  the  volume  ia  faj  no 
exhausted. 

Few  American  writers  either  of  prose  or  poetry  have  met  with  a  nnrrcw  c^Bil  to 
this,  mid  wry  few  luive  found  admi^^rs  in  as  many  different  circles  of  socicij  w  tm 
Anii'lia  Welby.     The  sei-n't  of  all  tliis  Ls  well  explaiiie<l  by  Rufus  W.  Griswold  ■  mt 
of  his   notices  of  this  lady.     He   says,  **Her  fancy  is   lively, 
informed  by  a  minute  and  intelligent  obser^'ation  of  nature,  and  she 
into  |HH;tr}*  some  new  and  beautiful  imagery.     No  painful  experience 
heart's  full  energies;   but  her  feelhigs  are  natural  and  genuine;  and  we  wtt  mnd 
the  pres4*nc4*  of  a  womanly  spirit,  reverencing  the  sanctities  and  immnniliri  sf  M^  j 
and  sym|>athizing  with  whatever  addresses  the  senses  of  beauty."     Mrk  Wdkf^ 
brilliant  sutvess  as  an  author  has  led  many  young  ladies  in  the  West  to  eanhlihtf 
example ;   and  while  hen*  and  there  is  found  one  who  displays  talent  and  eifacif^ 
none  Imvc  &s  yet  com|>n<ised  any  thing  like  equal  iK)pularity,  and  rery  lew,  infai  | 
have  iM'cn  found  e<pially  d<'serving. 

in  |)ersou  Mrs.  W(*lby  W2t<  rather  alK>ve  than  below  the  middle  height. 
and  ex4'ecdingly  gnu'cful  in  form,  with  exi|ui<iie  ta>te  in  dress,  and 
ll<  ri'iii;:  sort  of  nioveiiietit,  Oi«>  wotiM  at  once  he  riM-n^'iii/cd  a**  a  bcautital  woon^   A 
hli^lit  iiii|rtrli-(-tion  in  tiie  upper  lip,  whilr  it  pn-vcnird  her  fa(*e  from  being pcdvl  i 
\   t  ^:ivj'  :i  piM'iiliar  pii}ii:irM-y  tn  it^  i-xpn".>inn  whirli  wa-*  far  from  de»troTin|: ibJ flf 
it-  rl»;inii.     Hit  hair  wa-*  ex<jMi*iti'ly  Ix'autiful.  and  wa-*  always  armnged 
(it'  ilii'  pri-vailiii;;  fashion,  with  Mti^ular  elrj^am-r  anil  aihiptuiiun  toiler  fiM*e  and 
Ilcr  inatinirs  wm*  >in!ph%  natunil,  and  iuipuL<ive.  like  those  of  a  child. 


J 


-40.]  AMELIA    B.    WELBY.  211 

n,  though  sometimes  frivolous,  was  always  charming.  She  loved  to  give  the  rein 
ir  fancy,  to  invent  situations  and  circumstances  for  herself  and  her  friends,  and  to 
of  them  as  if  they  were  realities.  Her  social  life  was  full  of  innocent  gayety 
playfulness.  She  was  the  idol  of  her  friends,  and  she  i*epaid  their  affection  with 
whole  heart  Her  character  was  as  beautiful  as  her  manners  were  simple, 
ted  and  flattered  as  she  was,  she  was,  perhaps,  a  little  willful,  and  sometimes 
obstinate,  but  an  appeal  to  her  affections  always  softened  and  won  her.  Her 
Illness  was  that  of  a  wayward,  petted  child,  and  had  a  charm  even  in  its  most  posi- 
exhibitions. 

ra.  Welby's  maiden  name  was  Goppuck.  She  was  married  in  June,  1838,  to 
*ge  Welby,  a  large  merchant  of  Louisville,  and  a  gentleman  entirely  worthy  to 
le  husband  of  the  woman  and  the  poetess.  She  had  but  one  child,  a  boy,  who 
bom  but  two  mouths  before  her  death.  She  died  on  the  third  of  May,  1852,  in 
hirty-third  year. 

er  prose  writings  consist  only  of  her  correspondence.  Her  letters  and  notes, 
iver,  sometimes  assumed  the  form  of  compositions  or  sketches.  The  following  is 
[lustration  of  the  style  of  many  of  them.  She  had  been  visited  at  her  residence 
party  of  gay  masqueraders,  among  whom  was  a  very  intimate  friend  costumed 
Turk,  and  bearing  the  euphonious  sobriquet  of  Hamet  Ali  Ben  Khorassen.  On 
lay  afler  this  visit,  Mrs.  Welby  received  from  this  pseudo  Pashaw  a  note  of  fare- 
written  in  the  redundant  style  of  the  Orientals,  to  which  the  following  is  her 
er: 

lioagb  a  straoger  to  the  graceful  style  of  Oriental  greetiDg,  Amelia,  the  daughter  of  the 
ttan,  woald  send  to  Hamet  Ali  Ben  Khorassen,  ere  he  departs  ih>m  the  midst  of  her  people,  a 
rords  in  token  of  farewell,  and  also  in  acknowledgment  of  the  flowery  epistle  sent  by  the  gal- 
3en  Khorassen  to  the  "  Bnlbal  of  the  Giaour  Land,"  as  he  is  pleased,  in  the  poetical  language 
I  country,  to  designate  the  humblest  of  his  admirers  I  Like  the  sadden  splendor  of  a  dazzling 
>r,  gleaming  before  the  delighted  eye  of  the  startled  gazer,  was  the  brief  sojourn  of  the  noble 
EChorassen  in  the  presence  of  the  happy  "  Bulbul.''  He  came  before  her  uniting  in  his  aspect 
lajcsty  of  a  god  of  old  with  the  mien  of  a  mortal — ^graoeful  in  his  step,  winning  in  his  wcu^, 
terrible  as  an  army  with  banners."  The  eong  of  the  "Bulbul"  was  hushed ;  the  words  of 
ing  died  upon  her  lip.  But  now  that  the  mightiest  of  the  mighty  has  withdrawn  from  her 
ed  gaze  the  glory  of  his  overpowering  presence,  the  trembling  "  Bulbul "  lifts  her  head  once 
like  a  drooping  flower  oppressed  by  the  too  powerful  rays  of  the  noontide  sun ;  and  in  the 
;  of  the  gloom  that  overshadows  her,  recalls  to  mind  every  word  and  look  of  the  gallant  Ben 
assen,  till  her  thoughts  of  him  arise  like  stars  upon  the  horizon  of  her  memory,  lighting  up 
loom  of  his  absence,  and  glittering  upon  the  waters  of  the  fountain  of  her  heart,  whose  every 
lor  is  attuned  to  the  music  of  his  memory. 

t  the  bark  of  Hamet  Ali  Ben  Khorassen  floats  upon  the  waters  with  her  white  wings  spread 
le  clime  of  the  crescent  Her  brilliant  pennon  streams  from  the  strand,  and  the  words  of  the 
bul "  muHt  falter  into  a  farewell  May  the  favoring  gales  of  paradise,  fragrant  as  the  breath 
urif,  fill  the  wlken  sails  of  Ben  Khorassen,  and  waft  him  onward  to  his  native  groves  of  citron 
►f  myrtle,  waking  thoughts  in  his  bosom  freph  and  fragrant  as  the  flowers  that  cluster  in  his 
!  Thus  prays  Amelia,  the  daughter  of  the  Christian,  and  the  "  Bulbul  of  the  Giaour  Land  I " 
vein 

lis  exceedinpjly  graceful  and  tasteful  little  note  is  but  a  single  specimen  of  a  sort 
>mposition   with  which  Mrs.  Welby  delighted  to  indulge  her  intimate  friends. 


212  AMELIA    B.    WELBY.  P 

Indeed,  during  tlie  last  few  jeara  of  her  life,  these  note^  and  letten  Ibmed  the  a 
means  through  which  her  benutiful  fancies  were  conveyed.  She  had 
entirely  to  write  verses,  and  a  change  was  coming  over  her  mind.  Her 
seeking  some  new  form  of  development.  Before,  however,  her  frienda  could 
the  foresluulowings  of  this  new  form,  this  accoroplijihed  poetess  and  mthnihh  mi 
was  called  away  to  join  her  voice  with  the  angelic  choir,  whose  heimuuiet  ■■«  I 
delight  and  the  glory  of  the  celestial  world.  On  a  bright  May  morning;  mkA  m  I 
own  songs  have  taught  us  to  love,  when  the  earth  was  redolent  of  benntj,  and  I 
flowers  were  sending  up  to  heaven  the  inci^nse  of  their  perfumes ;  when  aD  njoid 
nature  was  pouring  out  its  morning  orison  to  its  Creator,  the  angela  tent  hj  I 
heavenly  Father  came  and  bore  her  spirit  to  its  home  in  the  skies.     And  so 

"  She  has  ptmi'd,  like  a  l)ird,  ftrom  the  minstrel  tfaroog. 
She  hiiA  gone  to  the  land  where  the  lovely  belong!  ^ 

The  following  lines,  written  by  Amelia  on  the  death  of  a  sbter  poelesa,*  wiD  ii 
a  fitting  couclu:iion  to  this  sketch,  and  a  fitting  tribute  to  her  own 

Sht!  has  pancd.  like  a  bird,  fh)m  the  mlnstnl  throng, 
8I11'  htu  gone  to  the  land  where  the  lovely  belong ! 
HtT  place  is  hahh'd  by  her  lover*!  side, 
Yet  his  heart  is  l\ill  of  his  fair  young  bride ; 
The  hopes  of  his  spirit  arc  crunhed  and  bowed 
As  he  thinks  of  his  love  In  htT  long  white  ahrond ; 
For  the  fh^^'ant  sighs  of  her  perfumed  breath 
Were  kissed  from  her  lips  by  his  rival— Death. 

Cold  is  her  bosom,  her  thin  white  arms 
All  mutely  crossed  o'er  its  ley  charms, 
As  she  lies,  like  a  statue  of  Grecian  art. 
With  a  marbled  brow  and  a  cold  hushed  heart ; 
Iler  locks  arc  bright,  but  their  ghws  is  hid ; 
Her  rye  is  sunken  'neath  its  waxen  lid  : 
And  thus  she  lies  In  her  narrow  hall — 
Our  fkir  young  minstrel — the  loved  of  alL 

Light  as  a  bird's  were  her  springing  feet, 

H«T  heart  as  joyous.  hiT  soiig  as  sweet ; 

Yet  never  again  tihall  that  heart  lie  stirred 

With  its  glnd  wild  songs  like  a  singing  bird : 

Ne*er  again  shall  the  strains  be  sung, 

That  in  sweetness  dropped  fh)m  her  silver  toogue ; 

The  music  is  o*er,  and  I)t'ath*s  culd  dart 

Hath  broken  the  spell  of  that  fh.'e,  glad  heart. 

Often  at  eve.  when  the  breeze  is  still. 
And  the  moon  floats  up  by  the  distant  hill. 
As  I  wandtT  alono  *mid  the  iqimm«T  bow(*rs. 
And  wn^the  my  lockn  with  the  swe«>t  wild  floweiai 
I  will  think  of  the  time  when  she  HngiTfd  there, 
With  her  mild  Mu«*  fyi>s,  and  h*'r  long  fair  hair; 
I  will  tn-oMire  bi-r  name  in  my  Unomi'ore  : 
But  my  heart  Is  sod  -I  can  sing  no  more. 

*L»ara  M.  Thonloa. 


130-40] 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


213 


THE  RAINBOW. 

soMETiifES  haye  thonghte,  in  my  loneliest 

hoon, 
'hat  lie  on  my  heart  like  the  dew  on  the 

flowera, 
f  a  ramble  I  took  one  bright  afternoon, 
iThen  m  j  heait  waa  as  light  as  a  blossom 

in  June; 
lie  green  earth  was  moist  with  the  late 

fallen  showers, 
lie  breeze  fluttered  down  and  blew  open 

the  flowers, 
Hiile  a  single  white  doud  to  its  haven  of 

rest 
>a  the  white  wing  of  peace,  floated  off  in 

the  west. 

LS  I  threw  back  my  tresses  to  catch  the 
cool  breeze, 

liat  scattered  the  rain-drops  and  dimpled 
the  seas, 

ar  up  the  blue  sky  a  fair  rainbow  un- 
rolled 

s  sofi-tinted  pinions  of  purple  and  gold. 

Nras  bom  in  a  moment,  yet,  quick  as  its 
birth, 
had  stretched  to  the  uttermost  ends  of 
the  earth, 

nd,  feir  as  an  angel,  it  floated  as  firee, 

■ith  a  wing  on  the  earth  and  a  wing  on 
the 


!ow  cahn  was  the  ocean !  how  gentle  its 

swell! 
ike  a  woman's  soft  bosom  it  rose  and  it 

feU; 
rhile  its  light  sparkling  waves,  stealing 

laughingly  o'er, 
Hien  they  saw  the  fair  rainbow,  knelt 

down  on  the  shore. 
lO  sweet  hymn  ascended,  no  murmur  of 

prayer, 
'et  I  felt  that  the  spirit  of  worship  was 

there. 


And  bent  my  young  head,  in  devotion  and 

love, 
'Neath  the  form  of  the  angel,  that  floated 

above. 

How  wide  was  the  sweep  of  its  beautifhl 
wings  I 

How  boundless  its  circle !  how  radiant  its 
rings! 

If  I  looked  on  the  sky,  'twas  suspended  in 
air; 

If  I  looked  on  the  ocean,  the  rainbow  was 
there; 

Thus  forming  a  girdle,  as  brilliant  and 
whole 

As  the  thoughts  of  the  ndnbow,  that  cir- 
cled my  souL 

Like  the  wing  of  the  Deity,  calmly  un- 
furled. 

It  bent  from  the  cloud  and  encircled  the 
world. 

There  are  moments,  I  think,  when  the 

spirit  receives 
Whole  volumes  of  thought  on  its  unwritten 

leaves. 
When  the  folds  of  the^eart  in  a  moment 

unclose. 
Like  the  innermost  leaves  fit>m  the  heart 

of  a  rose. 
And  thus,  when  the  rainbow  had  passed 

from  the  sky. 
The  thoughts  it  awoke  were  too  deep  to 

pass  by; 
It  lefl  my  full  soul,  like  the  wing  of  a  dove. 
All  fluttering  with  pleasure,  and  fluttering 

with  love. 

I  know  that  each  moment  of  rapture  or 

pain 
But  shortens  the  links  in  life's  mystical 

chain; 
I  know  that  my  form,  like  that  bow  from 

the  wave. 
Must  pass  from  the  earth,  and  lie  cold  in 

the  grave; 


214 


AMKLIA    B.   WELBY. 


pn 


Yet  O!  when  death's  riiadows  mj  bosom 
enoloud, 

When  I  tihrink  at  the  thought  of  the  coffin 
and  shroud, 

May  Hope,  like  the  rainbow,  mj  spirit  en- 
told 

In  her  beautiful  pinions  of  purple  and 
gold. 


THE  PRESENCE  OK  GOD. 

O  Tnou,  who  flin(r*Ht  80  fair  a  robe 

Of  clouds  around  the  hills  untrod — 
Tliose  mountain-pillars  of  the  globus 

Whose  i)eaks  sustain  thy  throne,  O  God! 
All  glittering  round  the  sunset  skies, 

Their  trembling  folds  are  lightly  furled, 
iVs  if  to  shade  from  mortal  eyes 

Tlie  glories  of  yon  upper  world; 
There,  while  the  evening  star  upholds 
In  one  bright  s|)ot  their  purple  folds, 
My  spirit  litis  its  silent  prayer. 
Fur  Thou,  the  God  of  love,  art  there. 

Tlie  summer  flowers  the  fair,  the  sweet, 

Upspringing  freely  from  the  sod. 
In  whose  soft  looks  we  seem  to  meet. 

At  every  step.  Thy  smiles,  O  God ! 
The  humblest  soul  their  sweetness  shares, 

They  bloom  in  imlarc-lmll,  or  cot — 
Give  me,  O  Lord !  a  heart  like  theii-s. 

Contented  with  my  lowly  lot ! 
Within  their  pun*,  ambrosial  l»ells 
In  (Miors  bweet,  Tliy  Spirit  dwells ; 
Tlifir  Yireath  may  seem  to  scent  the  air — 
Tis  Thine,  O  God !  for  Thou  art  there. 

IsUx !  fmm  yon  casement  low  and  dim. 
What  souniLi   are   these,  that   fill   the 
bn*eze  ? 

It  i>  I  hi*  {M'a'iant's  evening  hymn 
Arrests  the  fisher  on  the  freas— 


Tlie  old  man  leans  his  silTer  hmn 

l-jmn  his  light,  suspended  oar, 
Until  thoM*  sot),  delidottt  win 

Have  died,  like  ripples  oo  tlie 
Why  do  his  eyes  in  soAness  rail? 
Wlmt  melts  the  manhood  from  hk 
His  heart  is  filled  with  penee  md  pof 
For  Thou,  O  God!  art  with  hi 


efl 


The  birds  among  the 

Pour  forth  to  Thee  their 
When,  trembling  on  nplifled 

They  leave  the  emrth  and  nar  abaa 
We  hear  their  sweet,  famiKar  aba, 

Where*er  a  sunny  spot  is  Ibimd  | 
How  lovely  is  a  life  like  thein, 

Diffusing  sweetness  all  aroand  I 
From  clime  to  clime,  from  pole  to  pole 
Their  sweetest  anthems  soAlj  raB, 
Till,  melting  on  the  realnu  of  an; 
Thy  still,  small  Toioe  saeat  vhiipfl 
there. 

The  stars,  those  floating  isles  of  i^ 

Round  whu"h  the  cloads  inifivi  thciri 
Pure  as  a  woman's  rohe  of  whila 

That  trembles  ronnd  the  fom  k  vd 
They  touch  the  ht>art  as  with  a  spell 

Yet,  set  the  soaring  fkiiej  frea^ 
And  O,  how  sweet  the  tastes  thcy  trill 

They  tell  of  peace,  of  lore,  aad  Ha 
Knrh  niging  storm  that  wildly 
Kach  balmy  gale  that  lifts  the 
Sublimely  grand,  or  ftoftly  fiur* 
Tiiey  sf leak  of  Thee,  for  Thoa  art  tlv 


The  spirit,  oft  oppressed  with 

Mav  >trive  to  cast  Thee  from  ks 
Hut  who  can  shut  thy  prcaens 

Thou   mighty   Guest  that 
sought  ? 
In  spire  of  all  our  coM 

Whate*er  our  tlioughts, 
Still,  magnet-like,  the  heart 

And  {lointA,  all  trembling,  ap 


I'tf  I 


la  Hat 


1830-40.1 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


215 


We  caooot  shield  a  troubled  breast 
Beneath  the  confines  of  the  blessed, 
Above,  beloW|  on  earth,  m  air. 
For  Thouy  the  living  God,  art  there. 

Yet,  far  bejond  the  clouds  outspread. 

Where  soaring  fancy  ofb  hath  been, 
There  is  a  land  where  Thou  hast  said 

The  pure  of  heart  shall  enter  in ; 
In  those  far  realms,  so  calmly  bright. 

How  many  a  loved  and  gentle  one 
Bathes  its  sof^  plumes  in  living  light, 

That  sparkles  from  thy  radiant  Throne! 
There  souls,  once  soil  and  sad  as  ours. 
Look  up  and  sing  mid  fadeless  flowers ; 
They  dream  no  more  of  grief  and  care. 
For  Thou,  the  Grod  of  peace,  art  there. 


PULPIT  EDLOQUENCE. 

Tfls  day  was  declining ;  the  breeze  in  iis 

glee, 
Had  left  the  &ir  blossoms  to  sing  on  the 

sea. 
As  the  sun  in  its  goigeousness,  radiant  and 

stiU, 
Dropped  down  like  a  gem  from  the  brow 

of  the  hill; 
One  tremulous  star,  in  the  glory  of  June, 
Came  out  with  a  smile  and  sat  down  by 

the  moon, 
As  she  graced  her  blue  throne  with  the 

pride  of  a  queen. 
The  smiles  of  her  loveliness  gladdening 

the  scene. 

The  scene  was  enchanting!   in  distance 

away 
Rolled    the    foam-crested  waves  of  the 

Chesapeake  Bay, 
While  bathed  in  the  moonlight  the  village 

was  seen, 


With  the  church  in  the  distance  that  stood 
on  the  green ; 

The  soft^oping  meadows  lay  brightly  un- 
rolled, 

With  tlieir  mantles  of  verdure  and  blos^* 
soms  of  gold, 

And  the  earth  in  her  beauty,  forgetting  to 
grieve, 

Lay  asleep  in  her  bloom  on  the  bosom  of 
eve. 

A  light-hearted  child,  I  had  wandered  away 
From  the  spot  where  my  footsteps  had 

gamboled  all  day, 
And  free  as  a  bird's  was  the  song  of  my 

soul. 
As  I  heard  the  wild  waters  exultingly  roll. 
While,  lightening  my  heart  as  I  sported 

along, 
With  bursts  of  low  laughter  and  snatches 

of  song, 
I  struck  in  the  pathway  half-worn  o'er  the 

sod 
By  the  feet  that  went  up  to  the  worship  of 

God. 

As  I  traced  its  green  windings,  a  murmur 

of  prayer, 
With  the  hymn  of  the  worshipers,  rose  on 

the  air. 
And,  drawn  by  the  links  of  its  sweetness 

along, 
I  stood  unobserved  in  the  midst  of  the 

throng; 
For  awhile  my  young  spirit  still  wandered 

about 
With  the  birds,  and  the  winds,  that  were 

singing  without ; 
But  birds,  waves,  and  zephyrs  were  quickly 

forgot 
In  one  angel-like  being  that  brightened  the 

spot. 

In  stature  majostic,  apart  from  the  throng, 
He  stood  in  his  beauty,  the  theme  of  my 
song! 


216 


AMELIA   B.    WELBY. 


[im-j 


His  cheek  pale  with  fervor— the  blue  orbs 
above 

Lit  up  with  the  splendors  of  youth  and  of 
love ; 

Yet  tho  heart-glowing  raptures  that  beamed 
from  those  eyes. 

Seemed  saddened  by  sorrows,  and  chas- 
tened by  sighs, 

As  if  the  young  heart  in  its  bloom  had 
grown  cold, 

With  its  loves  unrequited,  its  sorrows  un- 
told. 

Such  language  as  his  I  may  never  re- 
call; 
But  his  theme  was  salvation — salvation  to 

all; 
And  the  souls  of  a  thousand  in  ecstacy 

hung 
On  the  manna-like  sweetness  that  dropped 

from  his  tongue ; 
Not  alone  on  the  ear  his  wild  eloquence 

stole ; 
Enforced  by  each  gesture  it  sank  to  the 

soul, 
Till  it  seemed  that  an  angel  had  brightened 

the  sod 
And  brought  to  each  bosom  a  message  from 

God. 

He  sfmke  of  the  Saviour — ^what  pictures 

he  drew  1 
The  scene  of  his  sufferings  rose  clear  on 

my  view — 
The  cross — ^the  rude  cross  where  he  suf- 

fi'itMl  and  died, 
The  gush  of  bright  crimson  that  flowed 

fn>m  his  side, 
Th<*  cup  of  his  sorrows,  the  wormwood  and 

pill, 
The  darkness  that  mantled  the  earth  as  a 

pull. 
The  ;rarland  of  thorns,  and  the  demoii-liki* 

rn'ws. 
Who  kni'lt  as  they  seofffd  Him — "Hail, 

King  of  the  Jews  I" 


He  spake,  and  it  leeiiied  that  Im 

like  form 
£x]Minded  and  glowed  aa  hk  ipirit  gR 


nvta 


His  tone  so  impatsioned,  ao  meUng  1 

air, 
As  touched  with  compaMJOB,  he  ended 

prayer. 
His  hands  clasped  above  him,  lua  bhe  or 

upthrown. 
Still  pleading  for  fins  that  wera  sever  I 

own. 
While  that  mouth,  where  audi  iwwiai 

ineffable  clung, 
Still  spoke,  though  exprearioo  had  died 

his  tongue. 

O  God !  what  emotions  the  apeaker  awol 
A  mortal  he  seemed — ^yet  a  deity 
A  man — ^yet  so  far  fiom  humaiuty 
On  eartl) — ^}'et  so  doaelj 

heaven ! 
How  of^  in  my  fancy  I've  pi 

there. 
As  he  stood  in  that  triumph  of 

prayer. 
With  his  eyes  closed  in  ra; 

sient  eclipse 
Made  bright  by  the  amilea  Aat 

his  lips. 

There's  a  charm  in  delhroj,  a  mapi 

art. 
That  thrills,  like  a  kiae,  bom  the  Ep  to  li 

heart ; 
Tis  the  ghince,  the  expremhm,  the  wd 

choHjn  word, 
By  whose  magic  the  depths  of  the  ffi 

are  stirred. 
The  smile,  the  mute  gesture,  the  ooaWla 

ling  pause, 
The  eye's  sweet  expresaioni  ttal  mi 

while  it  awes, 
The  lip's  soA  iM'r^uasioii,  ita  moaie 
O  such  was  the  charm  of  that 

one! 


18SO-40.] 


AMELIA   B.  WELBT. 


217 


The  time  is  long  pa^t,  jet  how  clearly  de- 
fined 
That  baj-church,  and  village,  float  up  on 

mjmind; 
I  see  amid  azure  the  moon  in  her  pride, 
With  the  sweet  little  trembler,  that  sat  by 

her  side ; 
I  hear  the  blue  waves,  as  she  wanders 

along. 
Leap  up  in  their  gladness  and  sing  her  a 

song. 
And  I  tread  in  the  pathway  half-worn  o'er 

the  sod, 
Bj  the  feet  that  went  up  to  the  worship 

of  God. 

The  time  is  long  past,  yet  what  visions  I 
seel 

The  past,  the  dim  past,  is  the  present  to 
me; 

I  am  standing  once  more  mid  that  heart- 
stricken  throng, 

A  vision  floats  up— 'tis  the  theme  of  my 
song — 

All  glorious  and  bright  as  a  spirit  of  air. 

The  light  like  a  halo  encircling  his  hair — 

As  I  catch  the  same  accents  of  sweetness 
and  love. 

He  whispers  of  Jesus — and  points  us  above. 

How  sweet  to  my  heart  is  the  picture  I've 

traced! 
Its  chain  of  bright  fancies  seemed  almost 

effaced, 
Till  memory,  the  fond  one,  that  sits  in  the 

soul, 
Took  up  the  frail  links,  and  connected  the 

whole : 
As  the  dew  to  the  blossom,  the  bud  to  the 

bee, 
As  the  scent  to  the  rose,  are  these  memories 

to  me  ; 
Round  the  chords  of  my  heart  they  have 

tremblingly  clung, 
And  the  echo  it  gives  is  the  song  I  have 

sung. 


THE  LITTLE  STEP-SON. 

I  HAVE  a  little  step-son,  the  loveliest  thing 

alive; 
A  noble  sturdy  boy  is  he,  and  yet  he's  only 

five; 
His  smooth  cheek  hath  a  blooming  glow 

his  eyes  are  black  as  jet. 
And  his  lips  are  like  two  rose-buds,  all 

tremulous  and  wet ; 
His  days  pass  off*  in  sunshine,  in  laughter, 

and  in  song, 
As  careless  as  a  summer  rill,  that  sings 

itself  along ; 
For  like  a  pretty  fairy  tale,  thaf  s  all  too 

quickly  told, 
Is  the  young  life  of  a  little  one,  that's  only 

five  years  old 

He's  dreaming  on  his  happy  couch,  before 

the  day  grows  dark. 
He's  up  with  morning's  rosy  ray,  a-singing 

with  the  lark ; 
Where'er  the  flowers  are  freshest,  where'er 

the  grass  is  green, 
With  light  locks  waving  on  the  wind,  his 

fairy  form  is  seen, 
Amid  the  whistling  March  winds,  amid  the 

April  showers ; 
He  warbles  with    the  singing-birds,  and 

blossoms  with  the  flowers. 
He  cares  not  for  the  summer  heat,  he  cares 

not  for  the  cold. 
My  sturdy  little  step-son,  thaf  s  only  five 

years  old. 

How  touching  'tis  to  see  him  clasp  his 
dimpled  hands  in  prayer, 

And  raise  his  little  rosy  face  with  rever- 
ential air! 

How  simple  in  his  eloquence !  how  soft  his 
accents  fall, 

When  pleading  with  the  King  of  kings,  to 
love  and  tiess  us  all ; 

And  when  from  prayer  he  bounds  away  in 
innocence  and  joy. 


218 


AMELIA    B.   W£I.BY. 


The  blessing  of  a  smiling  God  goes  with 

the  sin  lens  boj  ; 
A  little  lambkin  of  the  flock,  within  the 

Saviour's  ibhl. 
Is  ho  my  lovely  step-son,  tliat's  only  five 

years  old. 

I  have  not  told  you  of  our  home,  that  in 

the  summer  houni, 
Stands   in   its  simple   mode>ty,   half  hid 

among  the  flowt*r8 ; 
I  have  not  said  a  single  word  about  our 

mines  of  weahli — 
Our  treasures  are  this  little  boy,  content- 
ment, pea(*e  and  health. 
For  even  a  lordly  hall  to  us  would  be  a 

voiceless  place, 
Without  the  ;^ush  of  his  glad  voice,  the 

gleams  of  his  bright  fuct*. 
And  many  a  courtly  pair,  I  ween,  would 

give  their  gems  ami  gold 
For  a  noble,  happy  boy  like  ours,  some 

ibur  or  five  years  old. 


Another  thing  with 
Are  there  not  gorgeous  dtiet  I 
Buried  with  fl^^fng 
sleep, 

Hid  by  the  mightj  sea? 


iBll 


And  say,  O  lone  seapshell ! 
Are  there  not  costly  things  and  si 

fumes 
Scattered  in  waste  o*er  ibal 
tombn? 
Hush  thy  low  moaOf  and  telL 


TO  A  SEA-SHELL. 

SilKLL  of  the  bright  sea- wave*  I 
What  is  it,  that  we  hear  in  thv  sad  moan  ? 
Is  this  unn'a^^ing  music  all  thine  own  'f 

Lute  of  the  ocean-i-iives ! 

O  does  some  spirit  dwell 
In  th«'  deep  windings  of  thy  chanil>ers  dim, 
Hifiitiiing  forever,  in  its  niniiraful  hymn. 

Of  oi*t'an*s  anthem  swell? 

WtTt  tliou  a  munnuriT  lung 
In  n'y>tal  palace>  briicath  the  seas, 
Kn*  in  II 1 1   (lie  blue  skv  tiiuu  hail.'^t  heard 
th«'  bn-fze 

Pour  it.<*  full  tide  of  s<»ng  ? 


But  yet,  and  more  than 
Has  not  eacli  foaming  wave  in  fbi 
O'er  earth's  most  beaatiful,  the  bt 

loa*t. 

Like  a  dark  funeral  pall? 

Tis  vain — llioa  answerest  not ! 
Thou  Imst  no  voice  to  whisper  of  1 
*Tis  oufv  alone,  with  sighs  like  od 

To  hold  them  unforgoC  I 

Tliine  is  as  sad  a  strain 
As  if  the  spirit  in  thy  hiddea  cell 
Pined  to  be  with  the  mmaj  thi 
dwell 

In  the  wild,  restless  main. 

And  yet  there  is  no  sound 
Upon  the  waters,  whispered  bj  th 
But  seemcth  like  a  wail  from  aaaj 

Thrilling  the  air  around. 

The  etirtli,  O  moaning  shell ! 
The  earth  hath  melodies  more  s« 

these — 
The  music-gush  of  rills,  the  hnm  < 

Heard  in  each  bloaMMn's  belL 

Arc  not  tliese  tones  of  earth. 
The    rustling  forest,  with  its    s 

leaves, 
Swi^eter  than  sounds  that  e*CB  in 
eves 
U|>on  the  seas  have 


189(MO.] 


AMELIA   B.  WELBT. 


819 


Alas !  ihon  still  wilt  moan — 
Thou'rt  like  the  heart  that  wastes  itself  in 

sighs. 
E'en  when  amid  hewildering  melodies, 

If  parted  frcnn  its  own. 


THE  OLD  MAID. 

Wht  sits  she  thus  in  solitude  ?  her  heart 
Seems   melting  in   her  eje's  delicious 
hlue, — 
And  as  it  heaves,  her  ripe  lips  lie  apart 

As  if  to  let  its  heavy  tlirobbings  through ; 

In  her  dark  eye  a  depth  of  softness  swells, 

Deeper  than  that  her  careless  girlhood 

wore; 

And  her  cheek  crimsons  with  the  hue  that, 

tells 

The  rich,  fair  fruit  is  ripened  to  the  core. 

It  is  her  thirtieth  birthday !  with  a  sigh 
Her  soul  hath  turned  from  youth's  lux- 
uriant bowers, 

And  h(^  heart  taken  up  the  last  sweet  tie 

That  measured  out  its  links  of  golden 

hours ! 
She  feels  her  inmost  soul  witliin  her  stir 

With  thoughts  too  wild  and  passionate 

to  speak ; 

Yet  her  full  heart — its  own  interpreter — 

Translates  itself  in  silence  on  her  cheek. 

Joy's   opening    buds,   affection's    glowing 
flowers, 
Once  lightly  sprang  within  her  beaming 
track ; 
Ob,  hfe  was  beautiful  in  those  lost  hours  ! 
And  yet  she  does  not  wish  to  wander 
back ! 
No  I  she  but  loves  in  loneliness  to  think 
On  pleasures  past,  though  never  more 
to  be : 
Hope  links  her  to  the  future — ^but  the  link 
That  binds  her  to  the  past,  is  memory  I 


From  her  lone  path  she  never  turns  aside. 
Though    passionate  worshipers   before 
her  Mi; 
Like  some  pore  planet  in  her  lonely  pride, 
She  seems  to  soar  and  beam  above  them 
all! 
Not  that  her  heart  is  cold !  emotions  new 
And  fresh  as  flowers,  are  with  her  heart- 
strings knit, 
And  sweetly  moumAil  pleasures  wander 
through 
Her  virgin  soul,  and  softly  ruflle  it 

For  she  hath  lived  with  heart  and  soul 
alive 
To  all  that  makes  life  beautiful  and  fair; 
Sweet  thoughts,  like  honey-bees,  have  made 
their  hive. 
Of  her  soft  bosom-cell,  and  cluster  there; 
Yet  life  is  not  to  her  what  it  hath  been, — 
Her  soul  hath  learned  to  look  beyond  its 
gloss — 
And  now  she  hovers  like  a  star  between 
Her  deeds  of  love — her  Saviour  on  the 
Cross! 

Beneath  the  cares  of  earth  she  does  not 
bow, 
Though  she  hath  ofUimes  drained  its 
bitter  cup, 
But  ever  wanders  on   with  heavenward 
brow. 
And  eyes  whose  lovely  lids  are  lifted  up ! 
She  feels  that  in  a  lovelier,  happier  sphere, 
Her  bosom  yet  will,  bird-like,  find  its 
mate, 
And  all  the  joys  it  found  so  blissful  here 
Within  that  spirit-realm  perpetuate. 

Yet,  sometimes  o'er  her  trembling  heart- 
strings thrill 
Soft  sighs,  for  raptures  it  hath  ne'er  en- 
joyed,— 

And  then  she  dreams  of  love,  and  strives 

to  fill 

With  wild  and  passionate  thoughts,  the 
craving  void. 


2X0 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


[I 


And  thus  she  wanders  on — half  sad,  half 
bli-at — 
AVitliout  tt  mate  for  tlic  pure,  lonely 
heart, 
Tlmt,  yearning,  throbs  within  her  virgin 
breast, 
Never  to  find  its  lovely  counterpart  I 


HAT. 

O,  THIS  is  the  beautiful  month  of  May, 
The  season  of  birds  and  of  flowers ; 

The  young  and  the  lovely  are  out  and  away, 

Mid  the  upspringing  grass  and  the  blos- 
soms, at  play, 

And  many  a  heart  will  be  happy  to-day, 
In  this  beautiful  region  of  ours. 

Sweet  April,  the  frail,   the  capriciously 

bright, 
Hath  posfled  like  the  lovely  away, 
Yet  we  mourn  not  her  absence,  for  swif\ 

at  her  flight 
Sprang  fortli  her  young  sbter,  an  angel  of 

light, 
And,  tiiir  as  a  sunbeam  that  dauzles  the 

sight. 
Is  beautiful,  beautiful  May. 

Wliut  scenes  of  delight,  what  sweet  virions 

she  brings 
Of  fn*shnesis  of  gladnes.4,  and  mirth. 
Of  fair  sunny  glades  where  tlie  buttercup 

springs, 
Of  o(x>l  gushing  fountains,  of  rose-tinted 

M'ings, 
Of  birds,  bees,  and  blossoms,  all  beautiful 

things. 
Whose  brightness  rejoices  the  earth ! 

Iliiw  fair  is  the  lundsni|H.'!   o*er  hill-top 
and  ^latie, 
AVhut  swift-varving  colors  are  rolled — 


The  shadow  now  sonahiiM^  the 
now  shade ; 

Their    light-shifling   hues  fir  the  gR< 

earth  have  made 
A  garment  resplendent  with  dew-gem  o*c 

laid — 
A  light-woven  tissue  of  gold  I 

O  yes !  lovely  May,  the  cnchantingly  fid 

Is  here  with  her  beams  and  her  flowci 

Their  rainbow-like  garmente  the  bloMoi 

now  wear. 
In  all  their  health-giving  odon  mej  ihai 
For  the  breath  of  their  iweetneaa  is  out  i 
the  air. 
Those  children  of  sunbeama  and  ihove 

The    fragrant    magnolia     in     loieSai 
dressed, 
Tlie  likic*s  more  delicate  boep 
The  violet  half  opening  its  am 
Just  kissed   by  a  sunbeam,  its  i 

guest. 
The  light  floating  ckxidleta  like  spni 
rest, 
All  pictured  in  motionless  fall 


soi 


These  brighten  the  landscapei 

unroll 
Their  splendors  by  land  and  hj 
They  steal  o*er  the  heart  with  a 

trol, 
Tliat  li;;htens  the  bosom  and 

soul — 
O!    this  is  the  charm  that 

whole. 
And  makes  them  so  lovely  to 


Ik 

Ik 


How  swet't,  when  the  month's  in  ihs  Isi 

of  its  prime. 
To  hear,  as  we  wander  alone^ 
Some  binlV  sudden  song  fixMn  the  fVK< 

S(*('nte<l  lime, 
And  catch  the  low  gush  of  its 

chime. 


1830-40] 


AMELIA    B.    WELBT 


221 


And  set  to  music  and  turn  it  to  rhyme, 
With  a  spirit  as  light  as  its  own. 

And  sweet  to  recline  'neath  the  emerald- 
robed  trees, 
Where  fairy-like  footsteps  have  trod, 
With  the  lull  of  the  waters,  the  hum  of 

the  bees. 
Melting  into  the  spirit  delicious  degrees 
Of  exquisite  softness  I   in  moments  like 
these, 
I  have  walked  with  the  angels  of  God. 

Sweet  season  of  love,  when  the  fairy-queen 
trips 
At  eve  through  the  star-lighted  grove — 

What  vows  are  now  breathed  where  the 
honey-bee  sips  I 

What  cheeks,  whose  bright  beauties  the 
roses  eclipse. 

Are  crimsoned  with  blushes!  what  rose- 
tinted  lips 
Are  moist  with  the  kisses  of  love  I 

Yet,  loveliest  of  months  I  with  the  praises 
I  sing. 
Thy  glories  are  passing  away 
With  the  dew  from  the  blossom,  the  bird 

on  the  wing. 
Yet  round  thee  a  garland  poetic  I  fling. 
Sweet  sister  of  April  I  young  child  of  the 
Spring! 
0  beautiful,  beautiful  May ! 


THE  DEW-DROP. 

I  AH  a  sparkling  drop  of  dew, 

Just  wept  from  yon  silver  star. 
But  drops  of  dew  have  very  few 

To  care  for  what  they  are ; 
For  little  ye  dream,  who  dwell  below. 

Of  all  I've  wandered  through ; 
Ye  only  know  I  sparkle  so, 

Because  I'm  a  drop  of  dew. 


I  flashed  at  first  with  waves,  that  whirl 

O'er  the  blue,  blue  tossing  sea ; 
Where  eddies  curl  o'er  beds  of  pearl 

I  wandered  wild  and  free. 
Till  I  chanced  to  spy  an  elfin  king, 

And  I  danced  before  his  view. 
When  the  merry  thing,  with  his  glittering 
wing. 

Whisked  off*  the  drop  of  dew. 

The  evening  air  with  sweets  was  fraught. 

And  away  we  fiitted  far, 
When,  quick   as  thought,  I  was  upward 
caught. 

To  yon  lovely  vesper  star ; 
And  I'm  very  sure  a  gentle  charm 

That  bright  thing  round  me  threw, 
For  an  angel  form,  in  her  bosom  warm. 

Enfolded  the  drop  of  dew. 

But  I  slept  not  long  in  yon  starry  bower, 

In  the  bosom  of  my  love, 
For,  in  a  shower,  to  this  primrose  flower. 

She  sent  me  from  above ; 
And  soon  its  moonlight  leaves  will  close. 

But  they  hide  me  not  from  view, 
For  the  wind,  that  flows  o'er  the  young 
primrose, 

Will  kiss  off  the  drop  of  dew. 


THE  SUMMER  BIRDS. 

Sweet  warWers  of  the  sunny  hours. 

Forever  on  the  wing — 
I  love  them  as  I  love  the  flowers. 

The  sunlight  and  the  spring. 
They  come  like  pleasant  memories 

In  summer's  joyous  time. 
And  sing  their  gushing  melodies 

As  I  would  sing  a  rhyme. 

In  the  green  and  quiet  places. 
Where  the  golden  sunlight  fisdls, 


tu 


AMELIA   B.    WELBY. 


pnMi 


Wt>  sit  with  hiniling  (iweA 

To  list  their  Rilvcr  calls. 
Aii«l  whon  their  holv  antliems 

Oiine  ]M»iiIing  throii^^h  tin;  air. 
Our  hearts  leap  forth  to  meet  them 

With  a  hle!>sinfir  and  a  prayer. 

Amid  the  mominjr*!*  fru;;nuit  dew, 

Amid  the  mirtt^  of  even, 
Tht'v  warlde  on  as  if  thfv  drew 

Tlicir  music*  down  from  heaven. 
How  >we(*tlv  sounds  em*h  mellow  note 

Hrne.'ith  the  moon*s  piile  ray, 
Wlien  ilyinf!  zephyrs  rise  and  float 

Like  lovent'  8i;;h8  away ! 

Like  shaflowy  spiritfi  seen  at  eve 

Amon^  the  tombs  they  glide. 
Where   sweet  pale  forms,  for  which  we 
frrieve, 

Lie  sleeping  side  by  side. 
They  break  with  song  the  solemn  hush 

Wlu'iv  |»eac»e  reidines  her  head. 
And  link  their  lays  with  mournful  thoughts. 

That  cluster  round  the  dead. 

For  n«*ver  am  my  soul  forget 

Tin'  lovfd  of  other  years ; 
Thfir  iiiiMHories  fill  my  spirit  yet— 

Tw  k<'pt  them  green  with  tears  ; 
And  thf'ir  singing  greets  my  heart  at  times 

Art  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Thou<:h  thrir  music  and  their  loveliness 

I A  rvL'r  oVr — forevt'r  o'er. 

And  often,  when  the  mournful  night 

Comr^  with  a  low  swiM-t  tune, 
Antl  H't^  a  star  on  rvery  bright 

And  one  beside  tho  nitMU), 
Wlicri  iKit  :i  sound  of  wind  or  wave 

'Mm-  I»o!v  *:tilbiess  ni:ir>, 
I  ItMik  ;i!io\i»  rinii  -trive  tr>  tniee 

'riit-ii"  dwi'llinir*  ill  the  ■^tars. 

Til'-  lir-l-  of  >iniiini-r  Inuirs — 

Ti.*-*  I'liiiLT  :t  «;ji-l»  of  '']*•{! 
T»'  ii.'   t'liiltl  iiinoii^  tin'  «l»*wy  flowers, 

To  th«-  sjiilur  on  the  M.>iu 


We  hear  tlieir  thrilling  tom 
In  their  swift  and  aiiy  Highti 

And  the  inmost  heart  rejoicea 
With  a  calm  and  pore  deligliL 

In  the  stillnesA  of  the  starlight 

When  I  am  with  tbe  dead, 
O  !  may  they  flutter  mid  the 

Tluu  blossom  o*er  my  bead. 
And  pour  their  songs  of  gkiiiwi 

In  one  melodious  strain^ 
O'er  lips,  whose  broken  melod/ 

Shall  never  sing  again. 


fatk 


■7 

id 


THE  MOURNFUL  HEABT. 

Mt  heart  is  like  a  kndj  bM, 

That  sadly  aingis 
Brooding  upon  it5  nest 

With  folded  wingSi 


For  of  my  thoughts  the 

Lie  all  untold. 
And  tre&fured  in  this 

Like  prei*iou8  gold. 

Tlie  fever-dreams  that 
Are  deep  and  utroog ; 

For  thnaigh  it  a  deep 
Such  floods  of  song. 


I  strive  to  ealm,  to  lull  to 
Ka<*h  mournful  strain. 

To  lay  the  pinmtom  in  mj 
But  ah  !  'tis  vain. 


The  s\*>ty  of  the  silent  skieSy 

Ka(*h  kindling  Mar, 
The  von n IT  leavf»4  Htirred  with 

My  rpiiet  mar. 

O !  in  niv  hiiiI,  too  wild  and 
This  gii\  hath  grown, 

Bri;:iit  ^{iirit  of  immortal 
Take  back  thine 


t^ 


1830-40.] 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


223 


I  know  no  sorrows  round  me  ding, 

My  years  are  few ; 
And  yet  my  heart's  the  saddest  thing 

I  ever  knew. 

For  in  my  thoughts  the  world  doth  share 

But  little  part ; 
A  moumfiil  thing  it  is  to  bear 

A  moumfiil  heart 


THE  GOLDEN  RINGLET. 

Here  is  a  little  golden  tress 

Of  soil  unbraided  hair, 
The  all  that's  lefl  of  loveliness, 

That  once  was  thought  so  fair ; 
And  yet   though  time   hath  dimmed  its 
sheen. 

Though  all  beside  hath  £led, 
I  hold  it  here,  a  link  between 

My  spirit  and  the  dead. 

Tes  I  fix>m  this  shining  ringlet  still 

A  mournful  memory  springs, 
That  melts  my  heart  and  sends  a  thrill 

Through  all  its  trembling  strings. 
I  think  of  her,  the  loved,  the  wept, 

Upon  whose  forehead  fair. 
For  eighteen  years,  like  sunshine,  slept 

This  golden  curl  of  hair. 

0  sunny  tress !  the  joyous  brow. 

Where  thou  didst  lightly  wave, 
With  all  thy  sister-tresses  now 

Lies  cold  within  the  grave; 
That  cheek  is  of  its  bloom  bereft, 

That  eye  no  more  is  gay ; 
Of  all  her  beauties  thou  art  left, 

A  solitary  ray. 

Four  years  have  passed,  this  very  June, 

Since  last  we  fondly  mct^- 
Four  years  !  and  yet  it  seems  too  soon 

To  let  the  heart  forget — 
Too  ioon  to  let  that  lovely  face 

From  our  sad  thoughts  depart. 


And  to  another  give  the  place 
She  held  within  the  heart 

Her  memory  still  within  my  mind 

Retains  its  sweetest  power ; 
It  is  the  perfume  left  behind 

To  whisper  of  the  flower ; 
Each  blossom,  that  in  moments  gone 

Bound  up  this  sunny  curl, 
Recalls  the  form,  the  look,  the  tone 

Of  that  enchanting  girl. 

Her  step  was  like  an  April  rain 

0*er  beds  of  violets  flung ; 
Her  voice,  the  prelude  to  a  strain 

Before  the  song  is  sung ; 
Her  life — ^'twas  like  a  half-blown  flower 

Glased  ere  the  shades  of  even ; 
Her  death,  the  dawn,  the  blushing  hour, 

That  opes  the  gate  of  heaven. 

A  single  tress  I  how  slight  a  thing 

To  sway  such  magic  art. 
And  bid  each  soft  remembrance  spring 

Like  blossoms  in  the  heart ! 
It  leads  me  back  to  days  of  old, 

To  her  I  loved  so  long, 
Whose  locks  outshone  pellucid  gold, 

Whose  lips  overflowed  with  song. 

Since  then  I've  heard  a  thousand  lays 

From  lips  as  sweet  as  hers, 
Yet  when  I  strove  to  give  them  praise, 

I  only  gave  them  tears ; 
I  could  not  bear,  amid  the  throng 

Where  jest  and  laughter  rung, 
To  hear  another  sing  the  song 

That  trembled  on  her  tongue. 

A  single  shining  tress  of  hair 

To  bid  such  memories  start ! 
But  tears  are  on  its  lustei^ — there 

I  lay  it  on  my  heart : 
O !  when  in  Death's  cold  arms  I  sink, 

Who  then,  with  gentle  care, 
Will  keep  for  me  a  dark-brown  link — 

A  ringlet  of  my  hair  ? 


ERASTUS   S.   S.   ROUSE. 


Erastus  Seeley  Smith  Rouse,  a  native  of  Reowellaer  ooontj.  New  ToA 
where  he  was  born  on  the  twenty-second  day  of  Febniar}*,  17U5,  it  one  of  iIk  In 
writerd  of  the  Weitt  who  have  made  poetry  the  pastime  and  pleasure  of 
lie  hus  be4*n  for  twenty-Hve  years  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  periodicals 
In  1{S52  he  was  the  editor  of  The  Western  Home  Visitor ^  published  at  Moant  Verasa 
Ohio,  by  E.  A.  Iliggins  &  J.  H.  Knox.  Mr.  Rouj^e  is  now  a  merchant  in 
Vcnion. 


"WORK!  WORK!  WORK!" 

Farmer  of  the  sweaty  brow  I 
Give  not  yet  your  labor  o'er; 

There's  no  time  for  idling  now ; 
Toil  ye  on  a  little  more. 

Ply  your  hands  with  bu.^y  care. 
While  the  sun  is  shining  bright ; 

Briskly  drive  the  polished  share, 
Ere  the  gloaming  of  the  night. 

Lftlwr  still — there  still  is  need, 
Pulverize  the  fruitful  soil. 

Bury  the  prolitic  seed, 

Earth  ^luill  well  requite  your  toiL 

All  her  millions  must  be  fed, 
All  dc{M>ndent  on  the  sod. 

All  must  look  to  you  for  bread. 
Faithful  stewanl,  be,  of  Go(L 

S(M»Ti  thf»  wiiit'ry  day*  will  I'ome, 
S(K)ii  tlie  fields  1m'  dad  in  snow, 

Thi'U  enjoy  your  happy  home, 
TIm'H  your  wearying  toils  fon»go. 


Ht-apiT  of  the  jjoM<*ii  {rp.iin  ! 

(HiitiiT  III'  thf  {Mili^htMl  [)low ! 
Not  vri  fnnn  vour  toil  n-fnun, 

Tli<'n'*>  uo  time  for  id  1  ins  now. 


NOTHING. 

Ilnil  Nothing!  thoa  thapeleM^  indriita 

shade ! 


Thou  least  of  all  littlencw^    myrtical 

Inspire  me  with  nothing,  of  nothing  to  m 
jAnd  ril  sing  about  nothing  till 
I  shall  ring. 

I  Nothing  is  nothing, — not  easy 
i  Nonentity, — absence  of  matterand  mSady 

*"  Then  nothing's  vacoitj  ?  "— jet»  Mai 
you  see. 

In  absence  of  all  things,  there  nothing  villi 
I  **  And  what  is  a  vacuam  ?* — frieDd,  on  ■] 
soul, 

Tis  the  absence  of  nothing  wwthifiH  bi 

hole : 

^The   world    came   from  nothin^*- 

hark  ye,  my  friend, 
Somet bin «i  from  nothing  I  ean'ti 
I  Take  nothing  from  nothing, 

remains, 

And  still  you  have  nothing  at  all  faryM 

{Miins. 
If  nautrht  eomes  from  nothing,  then  cani 

b«'  siiid 
That  Hu;rht  goes  to  nothing^a  impcmom 

sIukU'  ? 
I^'t  wi^'  nothinpirinns  the  matter  e: 
ril  nothiii^r  more  say,  since  there** 

to  gain. 
(  224  ) 


NOBLE  BUTLER. 


LE  Butler,  who  has  an  enviable  reputation  as  a  teacher,  and  as  an  author  of 
K)oks,  and  who  ranks  high  among  scholars  in  the  West,  was  bom  in  a  pioneer 
1  the  river  Monongahela,  twenty  miles  above  Pittsburg,  on  the  seventeenth  day 
,  1811.  His  father,  a  fanner,  was  a  native  of  Maryland,  but  an  ancestor  of 
8  name  settled  in  Pennsylvania,  in  the  time  of  William  Penn.  Noble,  when 
;  man,  became  a  teacher  in  Indiana,  and  he  is  a  graduate  of,  and  was  for  some- 
>rofessor  in,  Hanover  College  in  that  State.  In  1836  he  was  married  at  South 
r,  to  Lucinda  Harvey,  a  native  of  Kentucky. 

many  years  Mr.  Butler  has  been  the  principal  of  an  eminently  successful 
I  school  in  Louisville,  Kentucky.  He  has  written  largely  for  magazines  and 
3er8,  but  not  frequently  in  verse.  In  a  note  to  the  editor  he  says :  "  The  Muse 
visits  me,  and  never  takes  off  her  shawl  and  bonnet.  She  refuses  most  posi* 
)  go  with  me  to  the  school-room."  She  has,  however,  made  him  memorable 
nd  was  certainly  on  good  terms  with  him  when  she  inspired  "  The  Blue-bird," 
we  think,  is  one  of  the  sweetest  poems  of  its  class  in  our  literature. 
Butler  has  distinguished  himself  as  a  translator  of  German  poetry,  which  has 
d  the  attention  of  celebrated  English  writers.  He  has  translated  Schiller's 
'  The  Longing,"  with  quite  as  much  grace  and  with  more  exactness,  than  was 
d  to  it  in  a  translation  by  Bulwer ;  and  it  is  justly  claimed  for  him  that  his 
ig  of  the  song  of  "  Thekla"  in  Schiller's  "  Piccolomini,"  is  more  faithful  if  not 
autiful  than  the  generally  accepted  translation  by  Coleridge.  In  a  note,  Cole- 
knowledges  that  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  translate  the  song  with  literal  fidel- 
ierving  the  Alcaic  movement,  and  he  therefore  gives  a  literal  prose  translation 
vs: 

ik-forest  belloWB,  the  clouds  gather,  the  damsel  walks  to  and  fVo  on  the  green  of  the 
le  wave  breaks  with  might,  with  might,  and  she  sings  out  into  the  dark  night,  her  eye  dis- 
rith  weeping  :  the  heart  is  dead,  the  world  is  empty,  and  farther  gives  it  nothing  more  to 
Thou  Holy  One,  call  thy  child  home.  I  have  enjoyed  the  happiness  of  this  world,  I 
d  and  have  loved. 

Sutler's  translation  is  at  least  free  from  the  faults  which  make  that  by  Cole- 
lacceptable  to  scholars.     It  is  in  these  words : 

The  dark  clouds  rush !  hear  the  forest  roar ! 
The  maiden  wanders  along  the  shore. 
The  waves  are  breaking  with  might,  with  might ! 
And  the  maiden  sings  out  to  the  murky  night, 

Her  tear-troubled  eye  upward  roving  : 
My  heart  is  dead,  the  world  is  a  void ; 
There  is  nothing  in  it  to  be  enjoyed. 
O  Father,  call  home  thy  child  to  thee  ; 
For  all  the  bliss  that  on  earth  can  be 

I  have  had  in  living  and  loving. 
(  225  ) 

15 


22r» 


NOIJLE   BUTLER. 


[IhSM 


TT!E  BLUE-BIRD. 

Tiiorcjii  Winter's  power  fades  away, 

The  tyrant  d(X!d  not  yield ; 
But  Htill  he  holds  a  waninf^  sway 

0*er  liill  and  grove  and  field. 

But  while  he  still  is  lin^ring, 

Some  lovely  days  appear — 
Bri<i;ht  heralds  from  the  train  of  Spring, 

To  tell  that  she  is  near. 

It  is  a<  if  a  day  of  heaven 

Had  fallen  from  on  hi}^ 
And  God*s  own  smiles,  for  sunlight  given, 

Were  beaming  tlurough  the  sky. 

Tlie  blue-bird  now,  with  joyous  note, 

His  song  of  welcome  sings ; 
Joy  swells  melodious  in  his  throat ; 

Joy  quivers  in  his  wings. 

No  cunning  show  of  art  severe, 

But  9o(i  and  low  his  lay — 
A  sunbi*am  shining  to  the  ear — 

Spring's  softest,  brightest  ray. 

Tlio«te  magic  tones  call  from  the  past 

The  sunny  hours  of  youth ; 
And  shining  hopes  come  thronging  fast 

From  worlds  of  love  and  truth. 

The  hnrmony  is  seen  and  heard ; 

For  notes  and  ravs  combine, 
And  joys  and  hopes,  and  sun  and  bird, 

All  seem  to  sing  and  shine. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JITDAH. 

Pvr«;FiTr.R  of  Judah  !  onn*  in  pride 
Tl.«)ii  >atM  uiHMi  iliy  Infty  tlin>n<», 

V.i-.l  rkid  with  j*'Wi'l>  liki*  :i  bride. 
Tin-  (Irlit'ate  and  oimit-lv  one! 

And  ill  the  waving  palm-tn'e's  shmle 
Was  heunl  thy  lmr[>'s  exulting  strain  ; 


Jehovah's  flock  around  thee  played. 
And  bounded  o'er  the  flowery  pU^ 

Daughter  of  Judah  I  wh<*re  u  now 
The  glor^'  that  around  tbee  ilioiie? 

AVherc  are  the  gems  that  gnced  ll^ 
Where  is  thy  proud  and  lofty 


Where  is  the  harp  whoae  glad  Umm  M 
The  btillnt;ss  of  the  balniy  sir? 

Where  is  the  flock,  the  lorelj  ilod^ 
Jehovah  tru>ted  to  thy  care? 


Daughter  of  Judah  I  «ad  and 
Thou  sit*st  in  sackelolh  oo  the 

The  woods  are  vocal  with  thy 
The  distant  hills  thy 


Thy  harp,  from  which  the 

As  water  gushed  'neath  Horeb^ 
That  harp  of  thine,  decayed  and 


Hangs  voiceless  on  the 


Thou  seest  no  floc^  aitmnd  thee  pkyi 
All,  all  the  lovely  onet  are  gone  I 

Scattered  in  distant  lands  they  sttmy— 
Daughter  oi  Judah,  stall  weep  en  I 


LIKES  FOR  Muaa 


I 


Sleep  light  gently  on  thj 
As  the  dove  upon  her  nest! 
Many  a  golden  glowuig 
In  thy  happy  sliunberi 
Drf*am  of  fairies  on  the 
In  the  moonbeam's  silT« 
Dreum  of  rnin-liow-gleaniing 
Rich  with  sci*iit  of  Eden 
Dn*nm  of  some  immortal  strain 
Fhtnting  o%*r  the  p(*a4*eful  maitti 
Fmm  a  far-nflf  lovrlv  isle 
Glowiipj  in  \t<  Maker^s  smHe; 
Dn^ani  of  n^alm.^  of  love  and 
Whore  the  mnmds  of  discord 
Dnsim  of  nngi*ls  guaniing 
Dream,  too,  dearest  one,  of  me^ 


WILLIAM  ROSS  WALLACE. 


PO^x  entitled  ^  Dirge  of  Napoleon,"  which  was  declared  bj  John  Neal,  in  the 
EngUmd  Galaxy ^  to  be  ^daringly  and  surprisingly  original,"  written  by  'William 
Wallace,  before  he  was  seventeen  years  of  age,  gave  him  enviable  rank  am<Mig 
rriters  of  the  West  In  1886,  the  Cinctnnati  Mirror  published  a  poem  on 
isalem,"  which  it  pronounced  ^beautiful,  exceeding  beautiful"  Mr.  Wallace, 
e  he  attained  his  majority,  was  encouraged  by  these  and  other  tokens  of  success  in 
cal  composition,  to  come  before  the  world  as  the  author  of  a  volume  of  poems. 
I  Battle  of  Tippecanoe"  and  other  Poems,*  was  published  at  Cincinnati,  by  P. 
arlin,  in  1837.  The  leading  poem  was  delivered  at  a  celebration  on  the  battle- 
id,  on  the  seventh  of  November,  1835.  Neither  it,  nor  any  others  of  the  twelve 
s  which  compose  the  book,  have  been  since  acknowledged  by  their  author, 
>ting  those  above-mentioned,  though  in  the  Louisville  Journal  and  other  influen- 
lapers,  it  was  spoken  of  as  not  merely  giving  evidence  of  genuine  power,  but  as 
ining  illustrations  of  true  genius. 

r.  Wallace  was  bom  at  Lexington,  Kentucky,  in  1819.  His  father,  a  native  of 
,  was  a  Presbyterian  preacher.  He  died  when  William  was  about  eighteen 
ha  of  age.  His  mother,  who  was  a  native  of  Pennsylvania,  still  lives  in  Ken* 
^  William  was  educated  at  Bloomington  and  South  Hanover  Colleges,  Indiana, 
ead  law  in  Kentucky  and  entered  upon  its  practice  with  good  prospects,  but  was 
«d  by  literary  friends  to  emigrate  to  New  York  City,  where  he  now  resides, 
Dg  authorship  his  profession.  He  is  a  regular  contributor  to  Ifarper's  Magazine, 
^nidterhocker,  the  Journal  of  Commerce,  and  the  New  York  Ledger.  He  has 
shed  in  New  York  three  volumes :  ^Alban,  a  Metrical  Romance,"  in  1848 ;  '^Medi- 
18  in  America"  and  other  poems,  in  1851;  and  ''The  Loved  and  Lost,"  in  1856, 
ume  of  prose  and  poetry.  He  is  now  preparing  for  publication  ^  The  Pleasures 
e  Beautiful"  and  other  poems,  and  a  national  poem  devoted  to  the  great  deeds 
scenery  of  our  country,  which  will  be  entitled  "  Chants  of  America." 
r.  Wallace  has  been  very  earnestly  encouraged  as  a  poet  by  eminent  writers, 
iam  Cullen  Bryant  has  said  that  ''his  poems  are  marked  by  a  splendor  of  imag- 
m  and  an  affluence  of  poetic  diction  which  show  him  the  bom  poet;"  and  Edgar 
'oe  declared  that  he  stands  in  the  front  rank  of  modem  poets."  He  has  written 
but  a  few  topics  suggested  by  incidents  or  characters  in  Western  History, 
niel  Boone"  and  lines  to  "An  American  Mound"  are  the  only  poems  of  this  class 
lave  seen  from  his  pen,  excepting  "The  Battle  of  Tippecanoe."  His  subjects 
»ften  of  national  interest,  but  he  is  the  author  of  a  number  of  charming  songs, 
themes  upon  which  he  writes  with  most  power  and  beauty  are  those  which  in 
selves  possess  grandeur  and  require  stateliness  of  rhythm. 

*  Inicrlbed  to  WillUun  Henry  Harrison. 
(  227  ) 


«      ._:aX    ROSS    WALLACE. 


(1 


,^ 


k.  K. 


^    .vww^  ^i*e  way  before  tlio 

^.t  vt^uK-rs!      What  a  sicken- 

.Mi.%»  -uv  cdbiu*  wafted  from  their 

m 

...v.^  iviH*  '.     But  yesterday  I  heanl 

•  rt^ '  ^  ^uri  ^tuiid  in  the  loneliest  glen 

>.k  !ruiaiii»  to   me;   and   when   I 


emr:   and 


Ik 


Have  voit*es  for  my 

Btn*am 
IVIakes  music  in  my  thought ;  and  evnj 

liour 
Can  show  some  awful  minrle  pcHatad 
Within  the  wildeniesd ;  and  Danyser  Mill 
ljt*au8  proudly  oVr  the  mounlaio^ 

crap. 
Bathing  his  forehe4id  in  the  paamif 
And  calls  to  me  with  a  most  taunting  v 
To  join  him  there.     He  ahall  not  call  ia 

vain. 
Yes !     Sun*]y  I  must  go.  and  drink  anpv 


I  'u    ' aiain  there, and  stoo<l  alone, alone!  'j;j„,  jspit-ndor  that  in  in  the  pathlrw  wank 

...  .1    i.  loj.  liiiiid  the  sounding  chrnds,       '  ^j,,|  ^.^^^^  ^^^^  i^j^^,  ^j^^  ^  ^  corooaL 
V  ..i  j.u.iidl%  thouj,'ht  Uiat  I  wa-4  fii>t  to  ^„,,  ,,j^|  ^j^^  ^^^^^  ^^^j  ^^ 

I  ti.a  iiiiuhtv  mountain  with  a  human  -i»ii:. 
V'toiht-i-'H  t(K)t-|>rint  in  the  airy  sand 
viiu-u-  my  unwilling  eyes,  and  I  at  once 
Wai  lifptei'ti'ss,  unthroned,  tliere  beiUcn 

hack 
I'li  u-iileiis  thought  again.     This  cannot 

btit: 
bVi    1  am  of  the  mould  tlwt  loathes  to 

hi-t>athe 
I'lii-  uir  uf  multitudes,     I  must  respire 
lltr  I'niverse  alone,  and  h(*ar,  alone, 
111  l^ml  walking  tlie  ancient  wilderness  ; 
Aiul   thin,  because   He  made  me  so— no 

more. 


1  must  away:  for  action  is  my  life ; 
And  it  is  l>ase  to  triumph  in  a  Past, 
However  hig  with  mighty  ein*umstance, 
hangiT  full-lan^i  and  large  heroic  deed. 
It'  vi't  a  Future  calls.     It  calls  to  me. 

■ 

What  if  some  seventy  years  have  thinn<*<l 

this  liair, 
\nd   dimmed   this   sight,  and   made   tlu* 

blood  roll  on 
l.f-N  riotous  iM'tween  the  banks  of  lift*? — 
ll.i.    heart  luith  vigor  yet,  and  .*till  thr | '*'»'"?  *>"J-''*  ^l'***^-*  "!»•  where 

y^;Q^^\^  Their  cities  pillared  fair,  with  nanj  anvi 

^Vnd  stately  dome  oVrahadowing 


mnn*h. 
Ami  iNHider  far  away  from  all  thai  m 
The  everlasting  wonder  of  the  worid* 
And  with  each  dewy  morning 

feel 
A3  though  that  world,  so  fresh,  to 
With  sunrise  and  the  mist,  had  joiC  boa 

made. 

Farewell,  0  dweller  of  the  lovmf!  te 

State 
Hav«f  I  made  eminent  within  the  wild, 
And  nit*n  fntm  me  have  that  which  dvy 

«ill  ''PeiUM*:" 
Still  do  the  generations  prens  Ihr  raoa. 
And  sundy  they  shall  have  it.     Tefl 

this : 
Say  «*  lk)one,  the  old  State-BidUv. 

gone  ionh 
Again,  c1(h«>  on  the  sunset ;  and  thai 
He  gives  due  challt*nge  to  that 
Whos4>  hvose  to  this  mi^jestie 
It  hath  pleased  G«k1  to  canoeL     ThcR  kr 

Wiirk.-* — 
Away  fn)ni  all  hU  kind,  but  for  his 
Unseen,  as  ( h*ean\  current 


•  InirrllMd  to  CMviaii  If .  Ctaj. 


they  ask 


D-40.] 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


229 


rhat  guerdon  Boone  would  have?" — 

then  answer  thus : 
little  f  wilderness  left  sacred  there 
r  him  to  die  in ;  else  the  poor  old  man 
ist  seek  that  lonely  sea  whose  hillows 

turn 
moarafiil  music  on  the  Oregon, 
id  in  its  desolate  waters  find  a  grave." 
— but  I  was  not  made  for  talk — Fare- 

weUI 


AVELINE-A  SONG. 

) VE  me  dearly,  love  me  dearly  with  your 

heart  and  with  your  eyes ; 
liisper  all  your  sweet  emotions,  as  they 

gushing,  blushing  rise : 
\kTow  your  soft  white  arms  about  me ; 
ly  you  cannot  live  without  me : 
ly,  you  are  my  Aveline ;   say,  that  you 

are  only  mine, 
hat  you  cannot  live  without  me,  young 

and  rosy  Aveline  I 

ove  me  dearly,  dearly,  dearly:    speak 

your  love-words  silver-clearly, 
0  I  may  not  doubt  thus  early  of  your 

fondness,  of  your  truth, 
ress,  oh !    pi*ess  your  throbbing  bosom 

closely,  warmly  to  my  own : 
ix  your  kindled  eyes  on  mine — say  you 

live  for  me  alone, 
rhile  I  fix  my  eyes  on  thine, 
ovely,  trusting,  artless, plighted;  plighted, 

rosy  Aveline ! 

ove  me  dearly ;  love  me  dearly :  radiant 

dawn  upon  my  gloom : 
lavish  me  with  beauty's  bloom : — 
ell  me  ^Life  has  yet  a  glory :  'tis  not  all 

an  idle  story!" 
A  a  gladdened  vale  in  noonlight;   as   a 

weary  lake  in  moonlight, 


Let  me  in  thy  love  recline : 
Show  me  life  has  yet  a  splendor  in  my 
tender  Aveline. 

Love  dae  dearly,  dearly,  dearly  with  your 

heart  and  with  your  eyes : 
Whisper  all  your  sweet  emotions  as  they 

gushing,  blushing  rise. 
Throw  your  soft  white  arms  around  me ; 

say  you  lived  not  till  you  found  me — 
Say  it,  say  it,  Aveline  I   whisper  you  are 

only  mine ; 
That  you  cannot  live  without  me,  as  you 

throw  your  arms  about  me, 
That  you  cannot  live  without  me,  artless, 

rosy  Aveline  I 


SONG  OP  A  LEAF, 

FROM  GUFTT  YALLSf  NBAB  BAMOVKB  OOLLBOB. 

I. 

When  plucked  firom  off  my  natal  bough, 

I  would  have  sighed  but  that  I  knew 
The  rifling  one  intended  me 

As  his  sweet  offering  to  you, 
To  you  who  stood  in  youth  beneath 

My  parent-tree  beside  the  Fall, 
Whose  crystal  trumpets  still  to  crag 

And  leaning  cloud  sonorous  calL 

n. 

Ah,  well  I  know  why  he  would  send 

The  humble  little  leaf  to  thee— 
For  still  thy  visits  dwell  within 

The  memory  of  my  parent-tree. 
That  whispers  oft  of  all  those  hours. 

Those  innocent  hours  of  woodland  joy. 
Of   friendship's    clasp,   of   young    love's 
tryst, 

When  you  were  yet  an  ardent  boy. 


230 


WILLIAM    KOSS    WALLACE. 


pa 


III. 

Ah,  well  that  tree  reniein!)er9  them  I 

Aud  ritill  she  whi>iM.>r»  of  the  time 
When  couched  beneath  the  branches  there, 

You,    trembling,    wove    your    earliest 
rhyme; 
The  branches  shook  all  o'er  with  bliss ; 

The  cataract  louder  hailed  the  mom — 
Thej  thought  ^  perchance,  tliis  hour,  near 
us 

Another  poet-«oul  is  bom  I " 


IV. 

I  know  the  morning  of  thy  heart. 

With  all  its  dear  young  rhythm,  b  past ; 
I  know  the  yellow  leaves  of  death 

Are  on  your  cotRned  com nule  cfUit ;  * 
And  she  the  pure,  the  Ix'autiful, 

Sunk  long  ago  to  shrouded  bleep ; 
And  age,  and  sorrow  dim — but,  no) 

I  will  not  sing  if  thu^M  you  weep. 

y. 

Wliy  weep  ? — the  glorious  girl  and  friend 

Are  waiting  you  on  Eden-hills, 
AVliere  summer  is  forever  nooned, 

And  gone  all  weight  of  earthly  iUs ! 
Thy  poesies  if  not  so  glad, 

Yet  with  Experience  deeper  diime : 
The  highest  thought  from  sorrow  comes, 

^Vnd  large  humanity  with  time. 


VI. 


THE  GRANDECR  OP 


So  rest!  and  Best  shall  iliij 

woes; 
Motion  is  god-like--^od-lik€  ii 
A  mountain-stillness  of  nugeiti 
Whose  peaks  are  gforiooa  wkk  Ik  i 

light 
Of  suns  when  Day  it  al  Ua  aoleoi  d 
Nor  deem  that  slumber  mast  tgnoUt  I 
tJuve  kibored  lustily  once  in  airy  IcUi 
And  over  the  cloudy  lea 
lie  planted  many  a  budding  111001 
Whose  liberal  nature  daily,  nightly  }i 
A  store  of  starry  fruit : 
His  labor  done,  the  weaiy  god  went  k 
Up  the  long  mountaia-tnck 
To  his  great  house;  there  he  did  wUti 
Witli  lightest  thought  a  wali-iPDn  ki 
For  all  the  Powers  enMNiedaoftljaBaUt 
Wishing  their  Sire  might 
Through  all  the  sultry 
And  cold  blue  night ;  and  vcrj  ana 
They  heard  the  awitii  Thundanr  hnd 

low  and  deep : 
And  in  tiie  hush  thai  dro|i|Md 

sphenrs, 
And  ill  the  quiet  of  the 
Tlie  worlils  learned  wonhip  al 

of  years : 
Tliey  l<x)k<Hl  upon  their  Lord*t 

ly  face, 
And  bade  Religion  coae  and  Um  c 

starry  place. 


TlM»n  weep  for  these  no  more ! — I  fccl 

My  life  ebbs  with  ca«'li  woni  I  sing. 
And,  lik(*  my  early  friend  and  love. 

My  heart  to  death  ia  withering : 
One  pierdon  only  would  I  iL-^k — 

Lay  me  when  dead — jk«  on  a  shrine — 
On    that    first    song    your    young    heart  j '^''^  ^^"^  ^  ^'P^*  •"^  *»*^ 
bmithed  '•  ^^'1****^  torture  made  homacily 

To  your  own  dear,  last  Aveline  I  ^'l^"  ^^^  '^^"^  **»"  ^ 


DUTY  IS  SORROW. 
Was  lie  not  sad  amid  the 


*  Hon.  Jiihn  J^nklnii.  of  Mi««ivlppl.  who  «m  %  ntudrtil 
at  S>utli  IUiH»Trr.  lU  *m  reuarkabk  fbr  i^upvrb  Blind 
ftiiU  lUBoly  BOilalflllty. 


? 


Th(*n  is  it  not  far  better  that  la  hi 
Thoughtful,  and  brave,  and 

;Than  given  up  to  idiot  revebj 

Amid  the  unreligions  hrood  of  Mf ' 


30-40.] 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


231 


or  our  sorrow  is  a  worship,  worship  true, 
and  pure,  and  cahm, 

DODdiog  from  the  choir  of  duty  like  a 
high,  heroic  psakn, 

1  its  very  darkness  bearing  to  the  bleed- 
ing heart  a  balm. 

•rothers,  we  must  have  no  wailing :  do  we 
agonize  alone  ? 

ookftt  all  the  pallid  millions ;  hear  a  uni- 
versal moan, 

rem  the  mumbling,  low-browed  Bush- 
man to  a  Lytton  on  his  throne. 

[or  shall  we  have  coward  faltering: 
Brothers  !  we  must  be  sublime 

J  due  labor  at  the  forges  blazing  in  the 
cave  of  time : 

jiowing  life  was  made  for  dutj,  and  that 
only  cowards  prate 

f  a  search  for  Happy  Valleys  and  the 
hard  decrees  of  fate : 

eeing  through  this  night  of  mourning  all 
the  future  as  a  star, 

.nd  a  joy  at  last  appearing  on  the  centu- 
ries afar, 

Then  the  meaning  of  the  sorrow,  when 
the  mysteiy  shall  be  plain, 

iThen  the  Earth  shall  see  her  rivers  roll 
through  Paradise  again. 

\  \  the  vijiion  gives  to  soitow  something 
white  and  purple-plumed : 

Iven  the  hurricane  of  Evil  comes  a  hurri- 
cane perfumed. 


TUE  HUSBAND  TO  HIS  DYING  WIFE. 

Be  gentle,  gentle !  she  will  soon 

Pass  from  my  sight  away  ; 
Gently,  most  gently  !  soon  the  light 

Must  leave  the  lovely  clay. 
Making  me  desolate.     Awhile 
I  shall  behold  her  tender  smile 

Beam  like  an  Eden-ray ; 
And  I  must  walk,  when  it  has  flown, 
Abng  the  world's  great  paths  alone. 


I  will  be  gentle  as  the  wind 
That  comes  from  out  the  west 

On  sof^  low-murmuring  wings  to  lay 
A  dying  rose  to  rest 

1*11  walk  about  her  couch  as  mild 

As  leaves  a-falling  in  a  wild 
That  takes  its  Autumn-guest'; 

Or  sit  and  watch  her  feeble  breath. 

As  calm  as  Love  can  watch  for  death. 

Pale,  beauteous  one  I  I  know  full  well 

Thy  heart  is  also  wrung. 
That  round  the  bridal  rose  a  wreath 

Of  solemn  cypress  clung ; 
I  know  it  by  a  mournful  sign. 
For    when   thy   thin    white  hand's  in 
mine. 

It  trembles  like  a  bird  among 
Tlie  icy  branches,  while  she  knows 
That  winter  calleth  to  repose : 

I  know  it  by  the  tender  tone 

That  shades  thy  voice ;  for  thou 
Didst  try  to  speak  some  words  to  me 

Last  night  when  on  thy  brow 
I  pressed  a  mournful  kiss.     Thy  word 
Went  off  into  the  past,  unheard, 

As  day  is  passing  now ; 
But  yet  its  music  spoke  of  grief. 
And  bridal  hours  which  were  so  brie£ 

O,  dear  one !  when  thy  form  is  cold. 
And  heaven  hath  won  my  star ; 

When  I  must  struggle  on  through  life, 
Impatient  of  its  war ; 

How  can  I  walk  in  lonely  eves, 

Under  the  old  fiuniliar  leaves, 
Knowing  that  thou  'rt  afiu*  ? 

And  yet  whei*e  else,  when  thou  'rt  away, 

Can  I  go  out  to  weep  and  pray  ? 

Now  listen,  love !  one  hope  alone, 

Life  of  my  life !  can  cheer 
My  tortured  soul  when  thou  hast  gone 

Into  the  upper  sphere — 


2S2 


WILLIAM    ROSS   WALLACE. 


II 


Tliat  thou,  even  there,  where  spirits  dwell 
On  fields  of  fadeless  asphodel. 

By  glory's  large,  bright  mere — 
That  even  there,  in  GotFs  pure  climes, 
Thou,  thou  wilt  think  of  me  tiometiraes. 

O,  dearest !  when  I  too  shall  go, 
Thy  heaven's  re8j>lendent  things 

May  dan(*e  u|)on  my  start IimI  sight, 
Like  strange  and  brilliant  wing:*, 

Confuse<lly ;  then  come,  my  love  ! 

Come  swiftly  from  thy  house  above 
To  me  with  minist'riiigs, 

And  kiss  me  on  my  brightening  brow, 

Tlius,  thus  as  I  do  kiss  thee  now. 


AUTLTIN. 

Gloomily  strikes  the  coward  Blast 

On  the  sad  face  of  the  Mere : 
To  and  fro  are  the  dead  leaves  cast — 

To  and  fro : 
Tlie  Year  is  now  but  a  dying 
The  poor  old  heir  of  an  icy  bier ! 

As  he  goes,  we  must  go. 


Tliey  have  said  in  a  glorious  Land  away, 

In  a  Land  beyond  the  sea, 
Tli:it  as  Autumn  here  has  gorgeous  hues. 

We  should  paint  her  gorgeously. 
I  know  that  the  Fro:jt-King  brightly  sheens 

The  mazy  wood  in  the  cool,  calm  eves, 
And  at  morning  the  Autumn  proudly  leans 

Like  a  glorious  woman  on  the  leaves ; 
But  the  hue  on  her  che«'k  is  a  hectic  hue, 

And  the  hplendor  soon  must  leave  her 
eyes, 
;     And  a  mist  creep  over  the  orbs  of  blue, 

W!i«'nfV«*r  the  niinbow-luster  flies 
F  11)111  th<*  hirch  and  tin.*  :ish  and  the  maple 
tn*e. 

And  the  orrliis  di<'S,  and  the  aster  dies. 
And  the  niin  tails  drearily. 


The  rain  comes  down  on  the  lone^  Men 
And  the  mist  goes  up  Irom  the  vnv, 

And  the  pale  west  Wind  sobt  low  mdtai 
At  night  o'er  the  little  grave ; 

Like  a  weeping  mother  the  pale  Wiai  nh 
Over  the  little  grave. 

Then  the  trees— that  gave,  in  the  sbmh 
time, 

Each  one  hb  different  tone* 
This  glad  and  proud  as  a  cymbaFs  ^mt, 

That  making  a  harp-like  moan — 
All  falling  in  with  the  Wind  that  gmm 
0*er  the  little  grave  and  the  withered  feva 

Together  make  a  moan, 
While  the  desolate  moon  weeps  hiV  A 
night 

In  a  misty  skj  alone ; 
Not  a  star  to  be  seen  in  the  taaatj  tiwj^ 

The  moon  and  the  sky  alone. 
Yet  a  grandeur  broods  over  all  the 

And  music's  in  every  moan^ 
As  through  the  forest-pass  I  go^ 

The  cloud  and  I  akme ; 
I  face  the  blast  and  I  croon  a 

An  old  song  dear  to  me. 
Because  I  know  that  the  song 
By  a  Poet — now  in  the  graveyard  W^ 

Who  was  fashioned  tenderiy. 

O,  great,  mild   Heart!  —  0»  pak^  dn 

Banl! 
For  thoe  on  the  withered  graHi 
When  the  Autumn  comes,  and  the  pi 

Wind  counts. 
Like  a  weak,  wan  nun,  with  fingctt  vH 
Her  >tring  of  leaves  by  the  fbnst  faaa^ 

I  chant  a  Poet's  mass ; 
And  the  mist  goes  up  like  ineense  ralM 
And  the  trees  bow  down  like  fiian  slohi 

Away  ! — away  !  for  the  mass  is  said. 
And  it  bn-aks  the  heart  to  think  hays 
the  dead : 
But  where  can  I  go  that  tha  Hindi  d 

not  ^ing  ? 


10.] 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


233 


e  house?    Ah!  there  they  will  knock 
It  the  doors, 

stalk,  with  a  pale-mouthed  muttering, 
ghosts  through  the  lonesome  corridors. 

ind  away  o'er  the  dark-hlue  sea  I 

le  good  God  loves  us  too : 

Tear  is  with  us  as  it  is  with  thee — 

T  he  weareth  every  hue. 

from  the  darkness  and  the  blight, 

we  love  the  bloom  and  we  know  the 

light 

julj  strikes  the  coward  Blast 
I  the  sad  face  of  the  Mere : 
ad  fro  are  the  dead  leaves  cast, 

To  and  fro : 
Year  is  now  but  a  dying  Year — 
poor  old  heir  of  an  icy  bier  I 

As  he  goes,  we  must  go. 


THE  GODS  OP  OLD.* 

realmless  sit  the  ancient  Grods 
)on  their  mountain-thrones 
at  old  glorious  Grecian  Heaven 
'  regal  zones. 

iguor  o'er  their  stately  forms 
ay  lie, 

a  sorrow  on  their  wide  white  brows, 
ng-dwellers  of  the  Sky ! 
theirs  is  still  that  great  imperial  throng 
'  starry  thoughts  and  firm  but  quiet  wills, 
murmured  past  the  blind  old  King  of 
Song, 

hen  staring  round  him  on  the  Thun- 
derer's hills. 

'  cannot  &de,  though  other  creeds 
ime  burdened  with  their  curse. 
One's  apotheosis  was 
darkened  Universe. 

•  Inccribed  to  John  Bell  Bouton. 


No  tempest  heralded  His  orient  light ; 
No  fiery  portent  walked  the  solemn  night ; 
No  conqueror's  blood-red  banner  was  un- 
iurled ; 

No  volcan  shook  its  warning  torch  on  high ; 
No  earthquake  tore  the  pulses  of  the  world; 

No  pale  sun  wandered  through  a  swarthy 
sky; 
Only  the  conscious  Spheres 
Amid  the  silence  shed  some  joyous  tears. 
And  then,  as  rainbows  come.  He  came 
With  morning's  rosy  fiame. 
The  Stars  looked  from  their  palaces  whose 
spires 

And  windows  caught  afar  the  prophet- 
glow, 
And  bade  their  choirs  sing  to  the  sweetest 
lyres 

**  Peace  and  Good  Will  unto  the  Orb 
below." 
Jove  shuddered  and  turned  sick  at  heart, 

And  from  his  white  hands  fell 
The  scepter  with  a  thunderous  sound 

Before  that  miracle : 
Ah,  sick  at  soul !  but  they,  the  Bards — 

Song's  calm  Immortals — in  the  eclipse 
Thronged  up  and  held  the  nectar  cup 

To  his  pale  lips. 
Then  falling  back,  and  taking  lower  thrones. 
That  glistened  round  the  heavenly  zones, 
At  first  the  minstrels  lightly  stirr'd 

Certain  melodious  strings. 
While  the  startled  tempest-bearing  bird 

Poised  tremblingly  his  wings : 
But  lo^er  soon  their  harps  resounded, 

And  louder  yet  their  voices  rolled 
Among  the  arches,  and  rebounded 

From  all  the  roofs  of  gold. 

HTMN    OF    THB    BARDS. 
I. 

"Ye  cannot  leave  your  throned  spheres 

Though  Faith  is  o'er, 
And  a  mightier  One  than  Jove  appears 

Oh  Earth's  expectant  shore," — 


t'M 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


[IK 


Slowly  tiie  durinfr  wonLs  went  trampling 
throu;;;li  tin*  hulU. 
"Nor  ill  the  Plurili,  nor  Hell,  nor  Sky, 
The  Ll«Mil,  ()  ye  (io<ls  I  ran  ever  die, 

But  to  the  Mml  of  moji  uneeuj»ing  calls. 

II. 

**  Still  Jove  shall  wrap 
His  aHtiil  eyebrows  in  Olympian  rthrouds. 
Or   take  along  the  HeavenV  dark  wil- 
deniess 
His  thundiT-i'liaAe  U'liind  tlu*  hunted  Clouds. 
And  mortal  eyeA  upturned  bludl  behold 
A|N)Ilo*s  rolM'  of  ^old 
Sweep  t)in>u;xh  the  long  blue  corridor  of 
tin*  ^ky 


Or  paui>e  to  hear,  amid  the  hormit  th 
The  deep,  Imnuvc  cry  of  Battle*!  hi 

Blades 
Lf.'d  by  the  thirsty  Spear 
Till  at  the  weary  ComhatV  cIom 
They  give  their  pauionale  thank* 
Amid  the  {Minting  nmlu  of  ounqucred  ft 
Tlien,  drunken  with  their  god*«  i«d  v 
( f o  (iwooning  to  repode  arDund  hb  p 

idirine. 

▼. 

"And  He,  the  Trident-wieMer,«tin  lU 
The  adoring  BiUowa  kneel 
feet. 

While  at  hiA  nod  the 

Before  their  altar  of  the  Tempcart  ■ 


III. 


That,  kindling,  spenks  its  IV'ity : 

And  Hr.  tlM-  UiiliT  of  the  Sunless  Land    jOr—leaning  gently  over  Pafihiiin  iJn 
Of  reMlesH  jrhosts,  >hall  tilfully  illume      (Vere«l  by  ihemuMeof  wme  Tritoa'i, 
With  MnouM.ring  fin's,  that  8lir  in  r-^v-  i,.^i,i„j,  j,,^  ^^p^jn^^  ,^  ^  jl^,^,^ 
enied  ey.s,  j  i^^  „j,  jj,^.  ^j^^^.  ^^ain  of  the  Mgl 

Heirs  mournful  House  of  Gloom.  X(»  its  dim  winilow  tops  above. 

And  bathe  thy  dewy  eyeliiia  with  the  I 
Voluptuoud  Queen  of  Love ! 
"Still  the  ethen»al  Huntrew,  a«  of  old,         And  thou,  ah,  tliou ! 

Shall   roam   amid   the   natTed   LatnMi-  Awaking  from  thy  slumber,  thoothakp 
mountains,  Thy  fmssionate  li|M  upon  the  SearLi 

And  lave  Iht  virgin  limlw  in  waters  eoM    ;  brow 

That  Karth  holils  up  for  her  in  mariih?  '"  ^'nie  sweet,  lone  n*rew, 

ffMintains.  |     Where   waters  munnur  and  the  i 

And,  in  his  august  dream?  along  tlie  Italian  h-ave-*  bow. 

stn-anis.  And  young  Kndymion 

That  i»oor  old  Sjituni,  with  his  thronele.-.-*  At  Night's  etherual  noon, 

tniwii.  Shall  still  l»e  watehed  o'er  by  the  biM 

Will  feebly  grasp  the  air  for  his  lost  enmn,  M«n»m, 

Then  nnirniur  .sullv  low  of  hi.^  «rreai  over-  ^''»<»  thrilN  to  find  him  in  MNnekadji 

•  "J 

thi-ow.  r»efon»  her  silver  lamp  may  fail: 

,  And  Pan  >hun  play  lii;»  pleanuit 
IV.  Down  in  the  Ione>ome  glen. 

-Wnipt    in  his    soiniding    mail   nhall    he  ^^"*^'*'""--''>*'**  ^'*""'«***»™^ 
.„,.^..jp  A^aylay  Muse-bannled 

War*>  (  harintriT ! 


Alul  win  n-  tin*  niiitllet  n'els 

liy  tl»r«n;-!i  ilii-  >\\:i\iiig  lim-.^  his  eni^h-  "  Nnr  ab-eiit  She  whose  evejioTaioivlli* 

"«.'  uli''  U :  Tmtirs  sun-bur?t  on  the  worid  befcm- 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


236 


Seen  bj  the  Titan  in  his  pains 

Wrought  bj  the  frost,  the  vulture  and  the 

chains : 
Tes,  Titan  still,  despite  of  Jove's  red  ire, 

Who  sees,  through  calm  and  storm, 
Earth's  ancient  vales  rejoicing  in  his  fire, 
The  homes  and  loves  of  men — those  beings 

wrought 
To  many  a  beauteous  form 
In  the  grand  quiet  of  his  own  great  thought 
And  over  all,  white,  beautiful,  serene, 
And  changeless  in  thj  prime, 
Thou,  Psjche,  sLalt  be  seen 
Whispering  forever  that  one  word  sublime, 
I>own  the  dim  peopled  galleries  of  Time-^ 
^Eternity  r  in  whose  dread  circle  stand 
Men  and  their  Deities  alike  on  common 

land." 


Like  far-off  stars  that  glimmer  in  a  cloud, 
Deathless,  O  Gods  I  shall  ye  illume  the 
Past: 
To  ye  the  poet-voice  will  call  aloud, 
*^ Faithful  among  the  faithless"  to  the 
last. 

Ye  must  not  die ! 
Long  as  the  dim  robes  of  the  Ages  trail 
0*er  Ida's  steep,  or  Tempe's  flowery  vale, 

Te  shall  not  die  I 
Tour  mouldering  Delphos  only  did  make 
moan. 
And  feel  eclipse 
Fall  hke  a  storm-cloud  from  Jehovah's 
throne 
Upon  her  withered  lips. 
Though  time  and  tempest  your  old  temples 

rend. 
And  rightly  men  to  our  One  Only  bend. 
Ye  were  the  forms  in  which  the  ancient 

mind 
Its  darkling  sense  of  Deity  enshrined. 
No  pious  hand  need  weave  your  royal  palls : 
To  Sinai  now  Olympus,  reverent,  calls. 
And   Ida   leans  to  hear  Mount  Zion's 
voice. 


(xods  of  the  Fast !  your  shapes  are  in  our 

halls, 
Upon  our  clime  your  glorious  presence  falls, 
And  Christian  hearts  with  Grecian  souls 
rejoice. 


THE  LIBEBTY  BELL/ 

A  SOUND  like  a  sound  of  thunder  rolled. 

And  the  heart  of  a  nation  stirred — 
For  the  bell  of  Freedom,  at  midnight  tolled. 
Through  a  mighty  land  was  heard. 
And  the  chime  still  rung 
From  its  iron  tongue 
Steadily  swaying  to  and  fro ; 
And  to  some  it  came 
Like  a  breath  of  flame — 
And  to  some  a  sound  of  wo. 

Above  the  dark  mountain,  above  the  blue 

wave 
It  was  heard  by  the  fettered,  and  heard  by 

the  brave — 
It  was  heard  in  the  cottage,  and  heard  in 

the  hall — 
And  its  chime  gave  a  glorious  summons  to 

all— 
The  saber  was  sharpened — the  time-rusted 

blade 
Of  the  Bond  started  out  in  the  pioneer's  glade 
Like  a  herald  of  wrath :  And  the  host  was 

arrayed! 
Along  the  dark  mountain,  along  the  blue 

wave 
Swept  the  ranks  of  the  Bond — swept  the 

ranks  of  the  Brave ; 
And  a  shout  as  of  waters  went  up  to  the  dome. 

When  a  star-blazing  banner  unfurled. 
Like  the  wing  of  some  Seraph  flashed  out 

fh>m  his  home. 
Uttered  freedom  and  hope  to  the  world. 


•  Rung  in  PhiladelphU  on  the  paange  of  ttie  DmIu*- 
Uon  of  Independence. 


I      23(> 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


(lOMi 


OVr  the  li ill- top  and  tide  its  inAgnifi(*f  nt  fold, 
With  'JL  terrible  glitter  of  azure  and  gold, 
In  the  stonn,  in  the  sunshine,  and  darknei^ 

unrolled. 
It  bhixed  in  the  valley — it  blazed  on  the 

mast — 
It  lt*a|KM]  with  itit  Eagle  abn>ad  on  the  blast ; 
And  the  eyes  of  whole  nations  were  turned 

to  its  light ; 
And  tlie  heart  of  the  multitude  soon 
AVas  swayed  by  its  stars,  as  they  shone 

through  the  night 
Like  an  ocean  when  swayed  by  the  moon. 

Again   through  the  midnight  that    Bell 

thunders  out, 
And    iMUiners    and    torches  are  hurried 

altout : — 
A  hhout  a"*  of  waters !  a  long-uttered  cry ! 
How  it  lea|>s,  how  it  leaps  from  the  earth 

to  the  sky! 
I'ltiiii  the  sky  to  the  earth,  from  the  earth 

to  tht*  s<*a, 
Hear  a  chorus  re-echoed,  "The  People  are 

Vnv : " 
Thai  old  Hell  is  still  seen  by  the  Patriot's 

eve, 
Ami  lie  blesses  it  ever,  when  journeying  by ; 
l^iii;^  )-ears  have  passed  o*cr  it,  and  yet 

every  soul 
\\  ill  llirill  in  the  nitrlit  to  its  wonderful  roll; 
I'nr  it  •^peiikh  in  its  l)elfry,  wh(*n  kissed  by 

the  bhiHt, 
Likr  u  L'liirV'bn'athed  tone  fn)m  the  mvs- 

lirul  I'libt. 
l.iiii^  \eiir.i  ^llull  ndl  o*er  it, and  yet  ever}' 

chiniif 
Miiill  tiiirt  iiojn'rlv  t<>ll  of  an  era  sublime 
iM«iie  fipleihlid,  iiiuTv  dear  than  the  rest  of  | 

III!  lime. 

( I  t  r  !  il  I  lie  llame  on  our  altars  should  imie, 

'        I 
111  II  <  \oiee  but  Ik*  lieani,  and  the  Free- 

iiiiiit  ■*lii(ll  ^(a^t  I 

li.  I.  kiiidlr  ihi*tire,whili'heseesonthegnle, 

\ll  itir  iii(i>>  and  the  Mri|K-sof  the  Flag 

«il   lilt  Ill-art ! 


THE  NORTH  EDDA. 

NoBLP.  was  the  old  North  Edd% 
Filling  many  a  noble  grmve. 

That  **for  Man  the  one  thing  needfel 
In  his  world  is  to  be  brave." 

This  the  Norland's  blae-eyed  mother 
Nightly  chanted  to  her  child. 

While  the  Sea-King.  grim  and  ftatrir, 
Looked  upon  his  boy  and  Hnilel 

And  the  boy,  grown  np  a  Sea-Kia^ 

Grasped  the  old  ancestral 
Ever  in  the  Jotun-battle 

Foremost,  only  fearing  Fear. 


If  the  Valkyrs  did  not  choow 

In  some  combat  for  the 
If,  when  old,  and  gray,  and  wastedi 

He  was  dying  in  his 


He  would  bid  the  kings  to  ky  him 
In  his  ship,  and  spread  her  Mil — 

Then,  with  slow  fire  burning,  give  kr 
To  tlie  white  god  of  the  galeu 

So  he  went,  a  death-hymn  brealhiaf 
Feebly  in  his  snowy  bear^— 

So  bv  fire  within  the  Ocean 
WiL*(  the  Ocean-King  interred. 

0<lin  erown4'<l  his  stately  ipiril 
In  the  IIt*ro*s  hall  of  shells^ 

Far  away  fn»ni  Hela*s  darfcneia 
And  the  coward's  hell  of  hells. 

Let  us  h'am  that  old  North  Edda, 
Chanted  grandly  on  the  graTe : 

Si  ill  fi>r  Man  the  one  thing  ueulfal 
In  hi<*  wfirld  is  to  be  brare. 

Valkyrs  yet  are  forth  and  choora^ 
Wh(»  niu«t  Ik*  among  the 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


2S7 


Let  us,  like  that  grim  old  Sea-King, 
Smile  at  Death  upon  the  plain : 

Smile  at  tyrants  leagued  with  falsehood, 
Knowing  Truth,  eternal,  stands 

"With  the  Book,  God  wrote  for  Freedom, 
Always  open  in  her  hands ; 

Smile  at  fear  when  in  our  duty ; 

Smile  at  Slander's  Jotun-breath ; 
Smile  upon  our  shrouds  when  summoned 

Down  the  darkling  deep  of  Death. 

Valor  only  grows  a  manhood — 

Only  this  upon  our  sod 
Keeps  us  in  the  golden  shadow 

Falling  from  the  throne  of  Grod. 


THE  AMERICAN  BANNER. 

I. 

Flag  of  the  valiant  and  the  tried  I 
Where  Marion  fought  and  Warren  died ; 
Flas  of  the  mountain  and  the  lake ! 

Of  rivers  rolling  to  the  sea 
In  that  broad  grandeur  fit  to  make 

The  symbols  of  eternity ! 
0,  fairest  flag  I  O,  dearest  land ! 

Who  shall  your  banded  children  sever? 
Grod  of  our  fathers !  here  we  stand, 
From  Plymouth's  rock  to  Georgia's  strand — 
Heart   pressed  to  heart,  hand  linked  in 
hand — 

And  swear — ^**The  Union  lives  forever!" 

n. 

Still,  untom  banner  of  the  free. 
The  nations  turn  with  hope  to  thee  I 


And  when  at  home  thy  shadow  falls 
Along  the  armory's  trophied  walls, 
The  ancient  trumpets  long  for  breath. 

The  dinted  sabers  fiercely  start 
To  vengeance  from  each  clanging  sheath, 

As  if  they  sought  some  traitor's  heart! 

in. 

O,  sacred  banner  of  the  brave ! 

O,  standard  of  ten  thousand  ships ! 
O,  guardian  of  Mount  Vernon's  grave ! 

Come,  let  us  press  thee  to  our  lips ! 
There  is  a  trembling  of  the  rocks — 
New  England  feels  the  patriot-shocks  ; 
There  is  a  trembling  of  the  lakes — 
The  West,  with  all  the  South  awakes ; 
And  lo !  on  high  the  glorious  shade 

Of  Washington  lights  all  the  gloom, 
And  points  unto  these  words,  arrayed 

In  lines  of  fire  around  his  tomb: 
"Americans !  your  fathers  shed 

Their  blood  to  rear  the  Union's  fane ; 
For  this  their  fearless  banners  spread 

On  many  a  gory  plain. 
Americans  1  O,  will  ye  dare, 

On  mountain,  prairie,  valley,  flood, 
By  hurling  down  tlieir  glorious  gif^ 

To  desecrate  that  blood  ? 
The  right  shall  live  while  Faction  dies ; 

All  traitors  draw  a  fleeting  breath ; 
But  patriots  drink  from  God's  own  eyes 

Truth's  light,  that  conquers  death!" 

IV. 

Then,  dearest  flag  and  dearest  land. 

Who  shall  your  banded  children  sever? 

God  of  our  fathers !  here  we  stand, 

From  Plymouth's  rock  to  Georgia's  strand — 

Heart   pressed  to  heart,  hand   linked  in 

hand — 

And  swear — ^^  The  Union  lives  forever." 


*  mi 


THOMAS  GREGG. 


Tii()MA9  Grkoo  was  born  at  Bflmont,  Belmont  county,  Ohia  on  the 
4luv  lit'  I)<'(r(>nilK*r,  1808.  lie  received  his  education  in  the  diMrici  ichook  of  ki 
native  county,  and  in  a  printing-office  at  the  county  town,  St.  Claire%'ille.  He  «« 
appri-ntiriHl  to  Ilorton  J.  Howard,  printer  and  publisher  of  The  Xaiionai  Bitknm 
In  1h:$;j,  Mr.  Gre^  publir*lied  and  edited,  at  St.  Clainiiville,  twelve  nmnhen  of  i 
monthly  magazine,  which  he  called  The  Literary  Cabinet.  A  spirit  of  adTCMv 
then  led  him  to  emigrate  to  the  remote  Wt'st,  and,  in  1838,  he  publuhcd,  at  MontHM 
in  Wisixinsin  Territory,  The  Western  Adventurer.  Meantime  he  wan  a  ooatribalor  I 
the  Cincinnati  Mirror  and  to  The  Hesperian.  Between  1840  and  1850,  he  wmk 
sevenil  j(^ur8  connected  with  The  Signal,  at  Warsiiw,  Illiooid,  and  is 
and  editor  of  The  Representative^  at  Hamilton,  in  that  State. 


SONG  OF  THE  WINDS. 

TUB  8T«>KM. 

I  coMK,  I  come — ^with  power  and  might. 
On  swit>cst  pinion,  in  angry  flight; 
My  form  I  ahroud 
In  tlie  murky  cloud, 
And  over  the  deep 
In  fury  I  sweep  ; 
I  fril  the  tower,  and  I  n.*nd  the  oak, 
That  wiih<*tCMNl  the  |)owerof  the  lightningV 

>tn>ke, — 
Anil  mail  in  Iiis  IkmiMciI  stn*ngth  is  wcidc, 
When  1  in  my  Ioudi*st  fury  >\w\\k  ; 
And  >tn'ani  and  flouil  and  fon*st  and  field 
To  till*  Mmi^rth  of  my  might  and  will  must 

\i«Iil : 
Bill  \vh«*in'i*  I  «'<im<*.  or  wln-n*  I  \*i\, 
'Ti*  111  it  liir  fiwrlN'r-*  of  rarth  to  know. 

TMK   IIKKK/K. 

I  <iniM'.  I  r#ini«' — fn»ni  tin*  far-otf  land, 
"\ViM":«'   tli«-    -alt    spray  laves   the   jK-hlily 
>traiiil ; 


My  wing8  are  laden 

With  odors  ^weet^ 

The  fairest  forma 

Of  earth  to  greet ; 
I  swell  the  sail  of  the  gallant  ah^ 
As  she  [>roudIy  f&kims  the  suipng  deep; 
And  I  sing  a  tong  of  joy  and  mirth, 
As  I  pass  along  o'er  the  silent  earth; 
And  stn*am  and  flood  and  Ibresl  and  fdl 
Kver  to  my  mild  dominion  jield: 
But  wh<*nce  I  come,  or  where  I  ^ 
*Tid  not  for  the  sons  of  earth  Id 


THK 


I  c<^me,  I  come — from  my  quiet 
On  th(*  grassy  plain,  where  the  wiU-beei 
roam : 

I  cliinl)  th«'  mountain ; 

1  ki^-  the  fountain; 

I  «'ni»l  tin*  1>owit: 

I  fan  I  hi*  flower; 
And  ov«r  ih<'  plain,  and  over  the  dcepi 
My  siImt  win;r-  in  silmec  swevp; 
And  on  thf  Iirfu^t  of  the  gentle  rilL 
And  on  the  to]>  of  the  cloud-ca|iped  hilt 


(  238  ) 


10.] 


THOMAS   GREGG. 


239 


i  mj  slow  and  steady  flight, 
K>ntide  hour  or  dead  of  night ; 
stream  and  flood  and  forest  and  fleld 
to  mj  mild  dominion  yield : 
whence  I  come,  or  where  I  go, 
lot  for  mortals  on  earth  to  know. 


SONG  OF  THE  WHIPPOWIL. 

smi  hath  snnk  beneath  the  west, 
d  dark  the  shadows  fsJl ; 
tek  again  mj  forest  home, 
id  make  my  evening  call, 
sephyr  in  the  grove  is  hushed, 
d  every  leaf  is  still ; 
will  seek  my  wild  retreat, 
d  chant  my  Whippowil. 

Whippowil  I 

Night,  with  sable  mantle  spread, 

velops  field  and  flood, 

stars  with  pale  and  yellow  light, 

ine  out  on  vale  and  wood. 

late,  too,  has  begun  her  strain 

on  yon  distant  hill ; 

[  will  seek  my  leafy  bower, 

d  tune  my  Whippowil. 

Whippowil  I 

iratch-dog  has  retired  to  rest ; 
e  curfew  toll  is  done ; 
ound  is  heard  in  these  deep  shades, 
re  my  shrill  voice  alone ; 

yon  wild  and  lonely  glen, 
e  tinkling  of  a  rill ; 
I  these  peaceful  solitudes 

chant  my  Whippowil. 

Whippowil  I 


It  is  the  song  which  God  has  given* 

m  sing  it  to  his  praise ; 
Of  all  within  this  forest  bower, 

Mine  are  the  sweetest  lays — 
Then,  Whippowil !  shall  be  my  song. 

In  vale  or  on  the  the  hill ; 
Each  evening  at  the  twilight  hour, 

ni  tune  my  Whippowil. 

Whippowil  I 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BIGHT. 

Go  forth !  go  forth !    The  Battle  Cry 

Rings  out  from  every  glen ; 
From  every  vale  and  hill*side  home 

Pour  forth  stout-hearted  men  I 
Nor  sword,  nor  buckler,  pike  nor  steel, 

They  gird  them  for  the  fight ; 
They  go— in  Heaven's  name  to  wage 

The  Battle  of  the  Right ! 

With  Truth  for  buckler  and  for  shield, 

In  confidence  they  go ; 
A  promise  unto  them  is  given 

To  stay  the  tide  of  woe. 
The  widow's  hearth  now  desolate. 

Their  mission  is  to  bless ; 
Her  orphans  now  that  starving  cry. 

Restore  to  happiness. 

Then  go— and  join  the  valiant  band, 

Ye  men  of  strength  and  nerve. 
Resolved  ne'er  fh)m  the  path  of  right 

And  rectitude  to  swerve. 
Go  forth ! — when  God  and  duty  call, 

Join  in  the  eager  fight : 
Go  fortli ! — in  Heaven's  name  to  wage 

The  Battle  of  the  Right ! 


*  •»»  > 


CHARLES  D.  DRAKE. 


Charles  I).  Dkakk  was  born  at  Cincinnati^  on  the  eleventh  day  of  April,  1811 
'  His  father,  Daniel  I)rak<%  a  pioneer  phyiiiciun  and  a  pioneer  author  of  Ohio,  wiD  Im 
I  l)c  remembered  in  the  We^t,  for  ori^rinal  IalK)rs  well  ealeulate^l  to  make  knovB  ih 
I  inviting  ehara(*teristios  of  the  JSIissis>ippi  Valley,  nn  well  ha  for  important  wiiiiM  i 
;  the  furtherance  of  nu*a<«un's  by  which  the  wiightiest  ini|H*<limontii  to  it«  devrlofNRi 
have  been  rcniove<l.  He  was  the  lirst  student  of  medicine  in  Cincinnati;  he  pel 
lished  the  first  b(X)ks*  l>y  which  the  to|M»gruphy,  productions,  cliraate  and 
of  the  Ohio  basin  were  adequately  adv«Ttised ;  and  Ik*  wan  active  for  material 
prises,  as  well  as  for  literary  and  :<ociaI  culture  and  professional  edaeacioo,  fien  ll 
time  when  he  first  became  a  citizen  of  Cincinnati  (1H<>0),  till  the  last  jear  of  h 
life  (1852).  He  was  prominently  connected  with  the  earliest  Medical  OoUefBia 
earliest  medical  journals  of  the  Wi>t.  and,  in  1X27,  pmject(*<!  a  work  on  the  dwaM 
of  tlie  Mississippi  Valley ,t  to  wliich  he  devot«'d  the  Im'sI  thoughts  of  all  the  tiar  I 
(Hjuld  spare  from  professional  oblipitions.  durin<;  thirty  yt'ai-s. 

Charles  D.  was  a  midshipnum  in  the  UiiitiHl  States  Navy  from  April,  1S27,< 
January,  1830.  Having  detennineil  to  qualify  himself  for  the  practice  of  law,  1 
entennl  the  office  of  a  prominent  attorney,  in  Cincinnati,  immr*diately  after  he  renpi 
his  phice  in  the  navy,  and  was  admittinl  to  the  bar  of  Hamilton  county*  Ohio,  in  Ma 
183o.  Durin<^  the  earlier  year>  of  hi.-^  pnifessional  life,  Mr.  Drake  oontrihaled,  hot 
prose  and  poetry,  to  the  journals  of  Cincinnati,  and  was  re«rard«H]  at  a  writer  «l 
pivc  promise  of  marked  su<*cess;  but  he  n*niovfd  to  St.  Louis  in  1A34, 
rapidly  at  the  bar  of  that  city,  |)emiittfd  ;in*  enj!Tr»'«>injr  care*  of  hin 
fri;;hti'ii  the  ^<r(*ntle  nine*'  a1mo<>t  beyond  n*call.  Hv  has  randy  engaged  m 
coni[Ni<.iii(m  sim*«^  1810.  In  IH.'iG  he  wn)te  a  seri«»s  of  articles  on  the  ^Lrp 
Kclations  of  Husband  and  Wife/*  for  the  ('inrhmuti  Mirror^  and  in  1954  pd 
H^Ikm!  a  vnlum«>  **()n  the  Law  of  Suits  by  Attarhm<'nt  in  the  United  States,* 
has  •fiM'M  him  honored  nuik  anion;:  the  Amcriran  writers  on  lepil  questions 

Mr.  Drake  was,  in   IHiii),  a  pnHiiinent  member  of  the  Crcneni]  Assemblj  of 
MHiri,  fnnn  St.  JAnxU  «'ounty.     II<*  is  a  plea^in;;  and  fonibie  s|>eaker,  and  wieldfl  «id 
|NiliticaI  as  well  a*'  pergonal  ami  professional  intlu«'n('e. 


••'  N..rli»^  of  t'liiclnimtl."  l'^l<>.— *'  Natural  anl  Stitlatiral  M..wiir  IMrliir^ofCliiriDMd 
riiiolnti'-l  ti\  Mn|i«.     Ciiirinnfitl :  I^«ikrr  au'l  Wnllaro.  HITi      rjiiio.  |i|i  'i^*' 

t  I'riiii  ipil  Piof.i'H'^  of  thr  Inrrrinr  Vaila^v  tif  Nurth  Anii-ri«*t.  >«  thft  «|i|«-ar  In  th*  ranrM^ftB. 
i:^>|iiini;iti\  V:tru>tu>ii  nf  i»«  ro|>(ilntlnD.     2  ▼••Ui  )Sv».     CiiM:iiiiutl     Wintltrup  H.  Smith  ft  Co..  IRBO. 


(240> 


0.] 


CHARLES    D.    DRAKE, 


241 


WHAT  IS  LIFE? 

eigle  flew  up  in  his  heavenward  flight, 
lit  of  the  reach  of  human  sight, 
^ed  on  the  earth  from  the  lordly 
eight 

his  sweeping  and  lone  career : 
this  is  life!"  he  exultingly  screams, 
oar  without  fear  where  the  lightning 
learns, 

x)k  unhlenched  on  the  sun's  dazzling 
earns, 
ihey  blaze  through  the  upper  sphere." 

n  sprang  forth  from  his  bloody  bed, 
oared  till  it  seemed  he  would  wake 
le  dead, 

lan  and  beast  from  him  wildly  fled, 
though  there  were  death  in  the  tone: 
this  is  life !  *'  he  triumphantly  cried, 
old  my  domain  in  the  forest  wide, 
oned  by  naught  but  the  ocean's  tide, 
I  the  ice  of  the  fix)zen  zone." 

Kfe,"  said  a  Whale,  "  to  swim  the 
eep; 

ills  submerged  and  abysses  to  sweep, 
5  the  gods  of  ocean  their  vigils  keep, 
he  fathomless  gulfs  below ; 
?k  on  the  bosom  of  tropical  seas, 
inhale   the    fragrance  of    Ceylon's 
reeze, 

irt  where  the  turbulent  waters  freeze, 
he  climes  of  eternal  snow." 

life,"  says  a  tireless  Albatross, 

kim  thix)ugh  tlie  air  when  the  dark 

aves  toss 

e  storm  that  has  swept  the  earth 

cross, 

i  never  to  wish  for  rest ; 

ep  on  the  breeze  as  it  sof\ly  flies, 

;rch  in  the  air,  my  shelter  the  skies, 

)uild  my  nest  on  the  billows  that  rise 

1  break  with  a  pearly  crest." 


"  It  is  life,"  says  a  wild  Gazelle,  "  to  leap 
From  crag  to  crag  of  the  mountainous 

steep. 
Where  the  cloud's  icy  tears  in  purity  sleep, 

Like  the  marble  brow  of  death ; 
To  stand,  unmoved,  on  the  outermost  verge 
Of  the  peiilous  height,  and  watch  the  surge 
Of  the  waters  beneath,  that  onward  urge, 

As  if  sent  by  a  demon's  breath." 

"  It  is  life,"  I  hear  a  Butterfly  say, 
"  To  revel  in  blooming  gardens  by  day. 
And  nestle  in  cups  of  flowerets  gay. 

When  the  stars  the  heavens  illume; 
To  steal  from  the  rose  its  delicate  hue. 
And  sip  from  the  hyacinth  glittering  dew, 
And  catch  from  beds  of  the  violet  blue 

The  breath  of  its  gentle  perfume." 

"  It  is  life,"  a  majestic  War-horse  neighed, 
"  To  prance  in  the  glare  of  battle  and  blade. 
Where  thousands  in  terrible  death  are  laid. 

And  scent  of  the  streaming  gore  ; 
To  dash,  unappalled,  through  the  fiery  heat, 
And  trample  the  dead  beneath  my  feet, 
Mid  the  ti-umpet's  clang,  and  the  drum's 
loud  beat. 

And  the  hoarse  artillery's  roar." 

**  It  is  life,"  said  a  Savage,  with  hideous ' 

yell 
*^To  roam  unshackled  the  mountain  and 

dell, 
And  feel  my  bosom  with  majesty  swell. 

As  the  primal  monarch  of  all ; 
To  gaze  on  the  earth,  the  sky  and  the  sea. 
And  feel  that,  like  them,  I  am  chainless 

and  free. 
And  never,  while  breathing,  to  bend  the 

knee. 
But  at  the  Manitou's  call." 

An  aged  Christian  went  tottering  by. 
And  white  was  his  hair,  and  dim  was  his 
eye, 


16 


lit 


ClIAULKS    I).    DRAKt:. 


[|f>3a 


And  \i\a  wa8U*d  spirit  flcemed  ready  to  fly, 

As  he  .<uid,  with  fuhering  breath : 
''It  is  life  to  move  from  the  heart's  first 

throefl, 
Throup:h    youth   and  manhood    to  age's 

snows, 
In  a  ceaseless  circle  of  jojrs  and  woes, — 
It  is  life  to  prepare  for  death !  ** 


TO  URS.  GEORGE  P.  MARSH.* 

Thou  goest  to  trust  thyself  to  mighty 

0(*ean, 
Wliile  home  behind  tliee  lies ; 
And  strange,  grand  »cenes,  inspiring  strange 

emotion, 
Will  soon  before  tlwe  rise. 

Eternity's  great  type,  with  ages  hoary, 

The  lone,  mysterious  SotL, 
Restless  as  Time  and  strung  as  Death,  in 
glory 

To  thee  revealed  shall  be. 

Swift  winds  o'er  the  drear  waste  of  waters 
flying 

May  startle  thee  from  sleep, 
Tflling  sad  stories  of  the  dead  and  dying 

They've  given  to  tlie  deep. 

Through  weary  ni<i;lits,  and   wished,  but 
cheerh'ss  moniings. 
Thy  heart  may  yearn  for  Home, 
A-»   dt'tp   to  dfep  gives  forth  unearthly 


No  clouds  above  tbee,  tempest-Ion 
lowering. 
Can  hide  tiiee  fixNn  Hit  ejv ; 
No  toppling  waresy  like  — *— ^"^^ 
tliee  towering. 
Can  harm  when  He  it  nigh: 

He  wlio  to  troubled  GaKlee  aaid  aiU] 
"^  Be  still ! "  and  was  obeyed* 

Cim  rjuell  the  unpitying  storm 
wildly 
Around  thy  drooping  head. 


LOYE^  CONSTANCT. 

TiiK  flower,  that  oft  beneath  the  r§j 

Of  sunlight  warm  has  hloumed, 
Will  fade  and  shrink  from  life  wmwjf 

If  to  a  dungeon  doomed. 
But  even  there,  should  chanee 

Some  beam  of  genial  light, 
lx»  head  to  that  the  dying  nse 

AVill  turn  from  gloom  and  nk 


The  chord  that,  gently  touched,  will 

AVith  music's  softest  strain, 
If  rudely  swept,  at  careless  will, 

Gives  forth  no  note  again : 
But  still  there  lingers  on  the  ear 

A  low,  faint,  murmuring  swell. 
As  if  the  tone  would  yet  be  near. 

Where  once  'twas  wont  to  dwelL 


wannngs 


C)f  evil  yet  to  come : 


So,  from  the  heart  that  once  has 
I^>vi'*s  impulse  and  its  power* 

Though  Ii«;ht  may  lie  forever 
A>  fntni  the  imprisoned 

liut  tninble  not !     In  that  dmid  hour  of '  ^"*>rt "^'T  ^^'^^^  "-*  pi^**  '*'«"  be 
M>rrow,  Whrn*  first  was  seen  its  ictar« 

TUy  >vvt  lling  frar-  allay  !  .  -^"  >lil'^viv.  k.-.j  ni<-n  on  shoreksss 

No  iii-lii  .u  dark  Init  (nxfran  bring  a  nior-j      ^'*""»  *'»  »'••''»•  ''"'"^'*  ^^' 

,..,..■  !  Still,  likf*  tht>  lind  thiif,  rmshed.  wiD  vi 

No  Morni  but  II.-  can  May :  ^'^  ^w.-te-^t  fmCTnnee  Uvt 

Tho  heart  that  once  to  lore  has 
Will  love  though  hope  be 


*  im  tlie  c««  uf  b«r  UviArture  to  ConuiLuiaiiopiv,  1H|0. 


LEWIS  F.  THOMAS. 


IS  FouLKE  Thomas  is  a  native  of  Baltimore  county,  Maryland.  He  was 
out  the  year  1815.  His  father,  E.  S.  Thomas,  having  moved  to  the  West  in 
^wis  F.,  in  connection  with  his  brother,  Frederick  William,  assisted  in  the 

of  the  Commercial  Advertiser^  and  the  Evening  Post,  at  Gindnnati  When 
i  was  discontinued,  in  1835,  Lewis  F.  became  a  student  of  law.     He  was 

time  an  acceptable  contributor  to  the  Western  Monthly  and  to  the  Oincin' 
'rrar.  In  1839  he  published  and  edited  the  Louisville  (Ky.)  Daify  Herald, 
L  he  removed  to  St  Louis,  where  he  edited  and  published  a  quarto  pictorial 
died  ^  Valley  of  the  Mississippi  Illustrated."  Farts  of  it  were  republished  in 
i,  and  were  translated  into  Grerman,  and  issued  at  Dusseldorf. 
e  year  1842,  Mr.  Thomas  had  the  honor  of  publishing  at  St.  Louis  the  first 
of  poems  ever  printed  west  of  the  Mississippi  River — ^  Inda  and  other  Poems  " 
odedmo,  containing  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  pages.  It  was  embellished 
[>ortrait  of  the  author,  and  two  steel  engravings  illustrating  the  principal  poem. 
)  was  the  printer,  at  the  Bulletin  office.     About  one  thousand  copies  were 

but  soon  after  they  were  published  a  fire  occurred  in  the  building  where  they 
m  stored,  and  only  a  few  copies  were  snatched  from  the  flames.  It  is,  there- 
w  a  very  rare  book.  "  Inda  "  was  delivered  before  the  Lyceum  at  Cincinnati, 
^  and  having  been  repeated  in  St.  Louis  in  1842,  was  published  at  the  request 
nembers  of  the  Lyceum  of  that  city.  In  the  preface  to  his  book,  the  author 
^  to  be  a  ^  pioneer  of  poesy  on  this  (west)  side  of  the  Great  Valley,"  declares 

publishes  with  ^^  Inda "  some  juvenile  indiscretions,  against  the  advice  of 
merely  to  gratify  his  own  whim.  One  of  those  indiscretions,  "The  World," 
ginally  written  in  the  Album  of  John  Howard  Payne,  which  was  sold  in 
gton  City,  in  1859,  at  a  very  high  price. 

)  1842,  Mr.  Thomas  has  written  much  but  published  rarely.  The  only  series 
IS  given  the  world  from  his  pen,  are  "  Rhymes  of  the  Routes" — ^published  in 
gton  during  the  Mexican  war.  They  celebrated  the  principal  victories  by  the 
an  army.  In  1838  he  wrote  a  drama  entitled  "Osceola,"  which  was  success- 
rformed  at  Cincinnati,  LouisviUe,  and  New  Orleans.  He  was  therefore  en- 
d  to  dramatic  studies,  and  has  given  elaborate  thought  to  a  tragedy  entitled 
5,  the  Conqueror,"  which  he  proposes  to  put  upon  the  stage  sometime  within  the 
year.     Mr.  Thomas  is  now  an  attorney  at  law  in  Washington  City. 


(243) 


2U 


LEWIS    F.   THOMAS. 


[iBa» 


WOMAN. 


Our  fi;reatet)t  grief— our  sweetest  coilm>- 
lation ; 
Tyrant  and  slave  tof^ther  in  tliee  blend, 
And  still  thou  art  our  proudest  exultation ; 


With  anxious  look  inquiring  of  my  wa 
The    very    flutter    of  her  gowD— 1 

0  woman!  unto  thee  my  thouglits  aye  tread — 

tend —  Came  like  sweet  music  calming  me  to  n 

To  thet — ^the  fairest  feature  of  creation ;  And  I  luive  wept  to  think  I  wnt  to  bki 

Ev<*r  the  falsest  foe,  and  firmest  friend —   !,«,        ,  ,     •  .       , 

;Thoufrli  man  hath  basely  flqnnnderM  a  i 

fame, 

Though  oA  he  canines  bitter  tenn  tofb 

Tlie  mother  still,  through  crimei  K|Mi 

1  loatlie,  yet  love  thee,  from  my  inmost ;     „_.„  ,         .  ."^  

,  Will  keep  him  gamer'd  m  her  hevt 

soul,  .  '^  * 

beart"^ 
And  spuming  thee,  I  bow  to  thy  control.    _,,  ,   .  

'  ^        '  ^  The  sisterV  k)ve  sUn  cheridies  hk  ■BM 

Thou  epitome  of  antithesis !  Though    he  hath  riv'd  affecdoa't  I 

Thou  Pandora !  fair  messenger  of  woe !  apart ; 

Full  fraught    with  evils   yet  bespeaking  And  O !  through  each  vidnitiade  of  H 
bliss,  Uow    fondly  to  the  hnabniid  dmgt  I 

Tliy  heart's  the  casket   whence  those  wife, 

evib  flow, 
Thy  lips  the  lid  ;-lPt  fi«.Iing*  urge  amws,  j^  '•»™"" '  "g™''  man  m  Tmin  Bur  Bj 

Or  rou«.  thv  pa-sion  to  a  fcr>ei.t  plow,      ^^  P^^  '^«  "y'^  debU  itat  «* 
*  •    '      «  I  due • 

'TIS   o|>cned,   and   unnuinber'd    mischiefs  * 

^^.^ K'en    though    he    drab    his  luirt  c 

But  Hope,  Uie  Sinm,  slays  and  lures  to  <^|»«iu<*r  ^rj* 

.|  And  make  his  veiy  seal  «  Tiankiiipl  • 

Thy  drafts  upon  his  love  iinhonowd  ia; 

Dear  woman !  as  a  mother  most  belov'd.         His  utmost  reach  of  yem  we  aD  I 

From  life's  beginning  to  it;*  closing  sctrne,  few 

With  a  deep  love,  unshrinking  and  un-  To  caned  half  the  gifta  thai  thoa  h 

moved  I         given — 

Through  all  the  gomi  or  ills  that  inter-  His  ev'rj- joy  on  earth — his  hope  ii 

vene ; 

As  sister — ^friend — thy  truth  is  ever  prov'd,  j  _ 

And  naught  can  come  thy  faith  and  love  ■ 

between ;  I 

Th(Mi  art  the    Halcyon  of  our  youthful  THE  WORLD. 

years, 
r.ltiiding  tJiy  vision  with  our  hopes  and  T'"','^^''^.^ '  theworU!  whatittha 


fears. 

<> !  I  do  know  how  soothing  *tis  to  fe«>l 
A   mother's  liund  {kissM  o*er  my  lu'hing 
hfud  ; 


(>f  which  so  much  we  pnuSt 
Wherein  we  are  aii  atoms  hurTd, 
Wh(»e  liat  is  our  fate. 


,  Wf  ent4'r  on  its  busy  maxe 
i\>  t-vv  u  t:ister  l>end  uvr  m«\  or  kneel,        t      Witii  youthful  feelings  rife, 
A  ^  min*st*ring  angel "  by  my  nestles.-*  |  We  >liun  its  MXini,  we  pray  iu  pni 
U'd, 


pray 
To  us  tht^  breath  of  life. 


1830-40.] 


LEWIS   F.   THOMAS. 


245 


We  labor  with  unceasing  toil 

To  win  its  fleeting  smile, 
And  through  its  myriad  windings  ooil. 

For  either  good  or  guile. 

And  hope  though  oft  deferr'd  still  beams, 

To  lure  us  with  its  raj, 
And  still  we  welcome  joy's  new  dreams, 

As  old  ones  pass  away. 

Ambition  gems  a  diadem, 

And  wreathes  a  wreath  of  fame, 

And  bids  us  fortune's  current  stem, 
To  battle  for  a  name. 

We  seize  the  sword,  to  war  rush  on. 
We  fall— our  wounds  our  glory — 

And  thus  in  honor's  guerdon  won, 
And  thus  we  end  our  story. 

Or  else  perchance  to  learning's  page 
The  thought  of  fame  awakes  us. 

We  study  on  from  youth  to  age, 
Or  till  disease  o'ertakes  us. 

Meanwhile  the  rabble  bears  along 

SiHne  demagogue  before  us. 
Who  courted  well  the  vulgar  throng. 

And  thus  doth  triumph  o'er  us. 

Philosophy  we  ponder  o'er 

In  eager  search  for  truth. 
And  waste  upon  its  pond'rous  lore 

The  precious  years  of  youth. 

And  when  with  age  and  grief  grown  gray, 

What  problem  is  found  out  ? 
Alas !  we  sadly  turn  away, 

To  droop  and  die  in  doubt 

Cer  holy  writ  we  bend  the  mind 

Till  reason  quits  her  throne, 
And  then  we  can  but  weep  to  find 

The  soul  a  skeptic  grown. 

Friendship  in  fortune's  sunny  day, 
Is  beautiful  and  bright, 


But  woe  and  care  obscure  her  ray, 
And  Tail  her  beams  in  night  ;— 

And    love — our  young  heart's    plighted 
gage— 

Our  youth's  most  thrilling  them&— 
Alas  I  we  find  in  winfry  age, 

'Twas  only  sunmier's  dream. 

We  are — and  yet  we  know  not  why 

Our  fate  has  sent  us  hither, 
To  live  our  little  hour  and  die. 

And  go— we  know  not  whither. 

O  man  is  but  a  fragile  bark, 

Toss'd  on  a  tempest  sea; 
Above  him  storm-clouds  gather  dark, 

And  breakers  on  his  lee. 

Hope's  a  false  beacon  on  the  wave. 

That  lures  him  to  despair ; 
Truth's  only  home  is  in  the  grave — 

The  wise  will  seek  her  there. 


MEMORY. 

A  HARP  whose  every  chord's  unstrung, 
A  doubted  treason  proved ; 

A  melody  that  once  was  sung, 
By  lips  that  once  we  loved; 

A  bark  without  a  helm  or  sail, 
Lost  on  a  stormy  sea; 

A  dove  that  doth  its  mate  bewail- 
Like  these  is  memory. 

And  oh,  it  is  the  spirit's  well, 

Its  only  fount  of  truth. 
Whose  every  drop  some  tale  can  tell, 

Of  bright  and  buoyant  youth ; 
And  as  we  traverse  weary  years. 

Of  sorrow  and  of  crime, 
We  feed  that  fount  with  bitter  tears, 

Wept  for  the  olden  time. 


246 


LEWIS    F.   TUOMAS. 


[113 


The  nun  doth  drj  the  springs  of  earth 

With  rays  from  summer  skies, 
But  feeling*s  foantain  knows  no  dearth, 

Its  current  never  dries. 
Tlie  rills  into  the  rivers  run, 

The  rivers  to  the  sea, 
Months  into  years  and  years  into 

Life's  ocean — Memory. 

At  noon  our  little  bark  sets  sail, 

Hope  proudly  mans  its  deck. 
At  eve  it  drives  before  the  gale 

A  wreck — ^a  very  wreck — 
Our  early  youth's  untainted  soul. 

Our  first  love's  first  n»grrt ; 
These  storm-like  over  Memory  roll — 

Oh,  who  would  not  foi^t ! 


LOVE'S  ARGUMENT. 

O!  LIFE  is  short,  and  love  is  brief, 
Life  ends  in  woe  and  love  in  grief; 

Yet  both  for  bliss  are  given, 
And  wise  philosophy  will  teach 
"Who  one  enjoys,  enjoyeth  eai'h. 

And  comes  most  near  to  lieaven. 

Now  you  and  I,  dear  girl,  well  know 
All  bli^is  is  fleeting  here  below. 

As  moralists  do  prove ; 
Then  let  us  haste,  while  youth  is  rife. 
To  snatch  the  fondest  joy  in  life, 

And  only  live  to  love. 

C)  love  it  is  the  tender  mise. 
That  for  a  little  season  blows, 


And  withers,  fades  and  diet; 
Then  seize  it  iu  iu  budding  grm 
And  in  thy  bosom  giTe  h  plnoa^ 

Ere  its  sweet  perfume  Hmm. 


Love  is  the  bobble  that  doCh 
U|)on  the  wine-cup*8  flowing 

A  moment  sparkling  there ; 
Tlicn  iiaste  thee,  dear,  iU 
And  let  them  melt  upon  thy  hj^ 

Or  they  will  waste  in  air. 


sweets  is  ■! 


O  love  !  it  is  the  dew-drop  briglM 
Tliat  steals  upon  the  fhwnr 

And  lingers  there  till 
The  flower  doth  droop,  when  wiA  ik 
The  sun  dissolves  the  drop  away: 

So  love  is  killed  by 


And  thus  do  transient  teardrops 
Bright'ning  those  soul-liC  eyes  of  iHh 

That  beam  with  soften'd  rsj; 
No  gleam  of  scorn  from  other^  cys 
Shall  make  those  g1itt*ring  tear^rap A 

I'll  kiss  tliem,  dear,  away. 

O  love  is  like  the  lingering  spaik, 
*Mid!«t  fading  emU^ni  in  tlie 

'Tis  bri;;htest  as  it  dies ; 
But  *tis  a  Phoenix  with  swift 
And  forth  from  its  own  ashes  sprio^ 

And  soars  for  genial  skies. 

Then  taste  love's  joys  while  yeC  yss  ■ 
For  th<ry  with  wint'ry  age  decay. 

And  coldness  will  them  smoClMr; 
And  if  young  love  sIxNild  ever  And 
One  maith^nV  heart  to  prove 

lie  soon  \^\\\  seek  another. 


»♦•  • 


EDWARD  A.  M'LAUGHLIN. 


In  October,  1841,  Edward  Lucas  of  Cincinnati  published  a  duodecimo  volume  of 
312  pages,  which  was  entitled  "The  Lovers  of  the  Deep,"  in  four  cantos,  to  which  is 
added  a  variety  of  Miscellaneous  Poems,  by  Edward  A.  McLaughlin.  In  his  Preface 
Mr.  McLaughlin  said: 

I  am  a  native  of  the  State  of  OoaDectlcut,*  and  from  my  youtb  have  been  rather  of  a  lively  and 
roving  difiposition.  At  an  early  age  I  absconded  from  home,  with  an  intention  of  joining  the  army  ; 
but  was  reclaimed,  and  shortly  afterward  bound  an  apprentice  to  the  printing  business.  At  the 
age  of  tweoty-one,  I  indulged  my  military  enthusiasm,  and  joined  the  Missouri  expedition.  At  the 
reduction  of  the  army  in  1821, 1  received  my  discharge  at  Belle  Fontaine,  and,  descending  the  Mi&> 
asuppi,  commenced  a  new  career  on  the  ocean.  I  liked  this  element  better  than  the  land ;  and  the 
deare  of  seeing  foreign  countries,  induced  me  to  follow,  for  some  years,  the  life  of  a  sailor.  Being 
discharged  at  one  time  from  the  La  Plata  frigate,  in  Cartha^ena,  Colombia,  I  was  forcibly  impressed 
into  the  Patriot  service.  After  many  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  I  was  enabled,  through  the  gen- 
erous aaustaMe  of  6eoif[e  Watts,  British  Ck)nsul  for  that  Republic,  to  return  home.  I  subse- 
qnently  entered  the  American  Navy,  in  which  I  served  about  three  years  and  a  half  My  last  voy- 
age was  in  the  Hudson  frigate,  on  the  Brazil  station,  from  which  ship  I  was  sent  home  an  invalid, 
to  Washington,  where  I  was  finally  discharged  from  the  service  in  1829. 

I  hftTe  written  under  many  and  great  disadvantages.  With  a  mind  not  characterized  by  any 
great  natnral  force  ;  stored  with  but  little  reading,  and  that  mostly  of  a  local  and  superficial  char- 
acter ;  without  books  of  any  kind — not  even  a  dictionary — I  was  thrown  altogether  upon  my  own 
slender  resoorceg.  The  leading  poem  was  begun  and  concluded  under  circumstances  never  above 
want :  though  a  regard  to  truth  constrains  me  to  acknowledge,  that  these  circumstances  were  not 
unfrequently  the  consequence  of  a  want  of  moral  firmness  and  stability,  on  my  own  part — to  say 
the  least  of  it — ^induced  bj  the  sudden  and  unlooked-for  overthrow  of  cherished  hopes  and  desires. 

The  "Lovers  of  the  Deep"  was  dedicated  to  Nicholas  Longworth,  and  the  miscel- 
laneous poems,  which  the  author  said  were  nearlj  all  written  in  Cincinnati,  were  in- 
scribed to  Richard  F.  L*Hommedieu,  Pejton  S.  Symmes,  Bellamy  Storer,  Jacob  Burnet, 
and  other  well-known  citizens.     As  described  bj  the  author : 

The  principal  poem  was  founded  upon  ftQ  incident^  supposed  to  hi^ve  occurred  in  connection  with 
the  destruction  of  the  steamer  Pulaski,  by  the  bursting  of  her  boiler,  while  on  her  passage  from 
Savannah  to  Charleston.    Among  those  who  happily  escaped  immediate  death  or  injury  by  the  ex- 
plosion, were  a  young  gentleman  and  lady,  who  were  thrown  near  each  other.    The  gentleman  suc- 
ceeded in  placing  bis  fair  partner  upon  a  floating  fragment  of  the  wreck,  on  which  they  were  tossed 
at  the  mercy  of  the  waves  for  three  days ;  suffering  intensely  from  thirst,  and  exposure  to  the 
tropic  sun,  and  momentarily  in  danger  of  being  overwhelmed  by  the  billows,  and  swallowed  up  in 
the  abyss.    Their  mutual  distress  doubtless  excited  mutual  tenderness  of  feeling,  for  misery  sym- 
pathizes with  misery :  they  became  tenderly  attached  to  each  other ;  and  when  scarce  a  hope  of 
BtSetj  was  left  them — when  nature  was  nearly  exhausted,  and  they  were  fast  sinking  under  their 
bufferings,  with  no  other  prospect  but  that  of  perishing  together :— in  that  incomprehensible  union 
of  love  and  despair,  of  which  human  life  is  not  wanting  in  examples ;  they  pledged  thdr  faith  to 
each  other,  to  wed,  should  Heaven  in  mercy  grant  them  deliverance.    They  were  subsequently  res- 
cued from  their  perilous  situation,  and,  happily,  redeemed  at  the  altar  the  pledges  given  in  the  hour 
of  adversity  and  trial. 

*He  WM  bom  at  North  Stamford,  on  the  ninth  of  January,  1796. 

(247  ) 


248 


EDWARD    A.   M'LAU(;HLIN. 


[lUMl 


The  story  is  not  vigorously  told.  The  best  {uissages  in  the  poem  are  d«cripQn 
of  scened  and  scenery'  fon*ign  to  the  tule.  Several  of  his  miiwclUuieoiu  poenb  in 
graceful,  and  show  tliat,  though  the  author  was  **  no  debtor  to  &ir  Lesming^fl  tchooU,' 
he  was  endowiKl  bj  nature  with  n'siM.*rtahIe  |)oetic  talenL  The  lines  ^ToGDaa* 
nati "  open  Part  III.  of  the  **  Lovers  of  the  Deep.** 


\ 


TO  CINCINNATI/ 


CiTT  of  gardens,  venlant  parks,  sweet 
bowers; 

Blooming  u()on  thy  bosom,  bright  and 
fair, 

Wet  with  the  dews  of  spring,  and  sum- 
mer's showers, 

And  fanned  by  ever}*  breath  of  wander- 
in<r  air ; 

Rustling  the  foliage  of  thy  green  groves, 
where 

The  blue-bird's  matin  wakes  the  smiling 
mom, 

And  sparkling  humming-birds  of  plu- 
mage rare. 

With   tuneful   pinions  on  the  zephyrs 
borne, 
Dis{)ort  the  flowers  among,  and  glitter  and 
adorn : 

Fair  ir*  thy  seat,  in  soft  recumbent  rest 
Beneath  the  grove-ckul  hills;    whence 

nioniing  wings 
The  gentle  hnn^zes  of  the  fragrant  west. 
That    kiss   the   surface   of  a  thousand 

sprin'TS : 
Nature,  her  many-<"olorpi1  mantle  flinjrs 
Annind  tlice,  and  adonis  tlie<r  as  a  bride; 
While  ]K>Iishfd  Art  his  gorgeous  tribute 

brinjrs. 
And  dome  and  spire  a^^cending  far  and 

wid<*. 
Th«'ir  pninti'd   shadows  dip  in  thy  Ohio's 

tidis 


'IiiM-nU.l  til  Uiriiapl  K.  I/Uimiiufdlru. 


So  fair  in  infancy, — O  what  shall  be 
Thy  blooming  prime,  expanding  likf  ihi 

rose 
In  fragrant  beauty ;  when  a  eentory 
Ifath  passed  upon  thy  biith,  and  liM 

bestows 
The   largess  of  a  worid,  that  fiedj 

throws 
Her  various  tribute  from  remolert  wbam 
To  enrich  the  Western   Boma:   Her 

shall  repo6« 
Science  and  art;  and  from  tiae*!  wtkA 

ores — 
Nature's  unfolded  pagfr—knowla^ge  cnm 

her  stores. 

Talent  and  Genius  to  thy  feet  shall  bris 
Their    brilliant  offerings  of   immoiii 

birth : 
Display  the  secrets  of  Pieria's  spring 
Ok^talia's  fount  of  melody  and  mifih: 
Beauty,  and  graoe,  and  chivaby,  so 

worth. 
Wait  on  tlie  Queen  of  AitS|  in  her  om 

bowers. 
Perfumed  with  all  the  ^■•g'^'Mf  of  ift 

earth. 
From  blooming  shrubbery,  and 

flowers ; 
And  hope  with  rapture  wed  life*i 

peaceful  hours. 

0\\  a<«  the  spring  wakes  on  the  vcrlfl 

year. 
And    nuturi'   glows   in    fervid 
dre-ssM, 


1830-40.] 


EDWARD    A.  MCLAUGHLIN. 


249 


The  loves  and  graces  shall  commingle 

here, 
To  charm  the  queenly  City  of  the  West; 
Her  stately  youth,  with  noble  warmth 

impress'd. 
Her  graceful  daughters,  smiling  as  the 

May — 
ApoUos  these,  and  Hebes  those  confess'd ; 
Bloom  in  her  warm  and  fertilizing  ray, 
While  round  their  happy  sires,  the  cherub 

in&nts  play. 

So  sings  the  Muse,  as  she  with  fancy's 

eye, 
Scans,  from  imagination's  lofty  height, 
Thy    radiant  beaming  day — where  it 

doth  lie 
In   the  deep  future;  glowing  on   the 

night 
From  whose  dark  womb,  empires  un- 

yail  to  light : 
Mantled,  and  diademed,  and  sceptered 

there. 
Thou   waitest  but  the  advent  of  thy 

flight. 
When,  like  a  royal  Queen,  stately  and 

fair, 
The  City  of  the  West  ascends  the  regal 

chair. 


HARVEST  SONG. 

The  smiling  Mom,  in  splendor  clad. 

Arrays  the  orient  sky 
In  rosy  light,  to  cheer  the  sad, 

And  Nature  beautify : 
She  calls  the  yeoman  from  his  couch. 

To  tread  the  burthened  sod. 
Where  Ceres  waves  her  flaming  torch. 

And  yellow  harvests  nod. 

And  now  we  move  a  jovial  band, 
Where  health  and  strength  disclose, 


To  reap  from  Nature's  open  hand 

The  blessings  she  bestows  : 
Far  as  the  horizon  extends. 

Where'er  we  turn  to  view, 
The  varied  landscape  lowly  bends. 

And  crowned  with  plenty  too. 

The  vigorous  youths  the  toil  begin, 

The  sires  bring  up  the  rear ; 
Who  gets  first  through  a  boon  shall  win 

From  her  he  holds  most  dear. 
With  many  a  jest  and  many  a  song, 

The  platoons  start  away — 
Saturn  ne'er  led  a  braver  throng 

Than  treads  the  field  to-day. 

'TIS  noon  :  we  seek  the  welcome  glade, 

To  take  our  midday  rest ; 
Stretched  on  the   sward,  beneath  the 
shade. 

Till  nature  is  refreshed : 
A  rich  repast  full  soon  is  spread. 

Our  table  is  the  ground. 
And  now  and  then,  to  damp  the  bread. 

We  pass  the  glass  around. 

The  hour  is  up— we  haste  away 

To  range  the  field  once  more, 
And  cheer  the  after-part  of  day 

As  in  the  mom  before: 
Some  rake  the  gravel  clean  and  clear, 

Our  work  is  done  in  brief; 
While  others  follow  in  the  rear. 

To  bind  the  yellow  sheaf. 

Bright  Phoebus  sinks  in  western  skies. 

The  festal  is  begun  ; 
We  little  care  how  swift  time  flies, 

When  our  day's  work  is  done. 
The  sportive  horn  sounds  through  the 
vale, 

The  supper  hour  is  come; 
With  quickened  step  we  cross  the  dale, 

And  gaily  travel  home. 


LAURA  M.  THURSTON. 


La  I'll  A  M.  Thurston,  who^e  maidon  name  wa<  Ilawley,  wan  born  in  DNrai 
1H12,  in  Norfolk,  Conncctirut.  She  pn*pun*d  lier>(*1f  for  the  profeMiioa  of  tcvK 
by  ('oiiii»l(*tin^  her  edtiraiion  ut  tlie  llarttord  Female  Seminary.  She  Uui;;li:  -^b 
first  in  llarttord,  at'tcrward  in  New  Bcdtoni,  in  the  same  State,  and  then  in  Pk 
(h'iphia.  While  teach in«y  in  the  latt<*r  place  *\\ii  was  induct*d  Co  remove  We*;. 
take  chart^o  of  an  A(*ademy  for  youn;^  women  in  New  AlUiny,  IndiwiA. 

In  September,  1h:)0,  she  w:ts  marritfil  to  Franklin  Thurston,  a  meirhanl  of  ? 
AllMiny.  She  hiid  aside  her  profession,  but  continued  to  reskle  in  the  mmt  p 
until  her  death,  which  tn-curred  July  twcniy-first,  1«12. 

Mrs.  Thur>ton  wrote  under  the  signature  of  Viola,  publidhing  her  poem*  ■ 
Louisville  Journal,  and  in  Gallagher's  J/e$penan.  Allliough  cut  off  in  the  OMli 
of  her  ]M)wers,  the  jioems,  few  in  numlnT,  which  she  gave  to  the  pRWi  far 
evidvnc<;  of  a  highly  gtt\eil  )KN*tic  mind.  Like  moM  of  our  earij  poet%  the  « 
fn)ni  the  iinjiulff  of  her  feeling>,  not  having  fame  or  remuneration  in  Tiew,  ani 
{MM'ms  an*  ap)>eals  to  the  heart.  Yet  there  is  more  than  onlinary  Tigor  in  hrr  li 
and  genendly  a  v(*r}'  nichNlious  ver^itit'aiion.  She  had  thoroughly  imbibed  the  i| 
of  her  new  home,  and  her  poems  are  more  thoroughly  AVestem  than  anj  other  of 
female  jNX'ts  <»f  her  time.  Her  ]MM-ms  have  never  been  collected  in  a  vokime,  allho 
immediately  atler  hi^r  <leath  there  were  promises  made  of  such  a  collection. 


ON  (KOSSINC;  TIIK  ALLE(;HAN1I>5. 

TiiK  hroad,  the  bright,  the  glorious  WeM, ' 

Is  •>)ir4'ad  lK*fon»  me  now ! 
Where  the  gniy  mi>ls  of  m<»niing  n'st 

Beneath  vtm  mountain**^  brow  ! 

■ 

Tlie  lMnmd  is  jMist — the  goal  is  won — 
The  rt'^ion  of  the  selling  >iin 

I^  Open  to  my  view. 
Land  of  tJH*  valiant  and  the  fn'e — 
^Iv  own  Cireen  Mountain  huid — to  thee. 

And  thine,  a  long  adieu  ! 

1  hail  tine,  Vall'V  <»f  the  AVest, 
Vnr  wl.jil  tliiMi  v«'t  -iKtlt  he  I 

I  hiiil  tlie<*  ffir  the  ))(»pe>  that  n*st 
I'lHrn  ihv  di'-tinv  I 


Here — fn»m  thi^  mountain  heiisbtl 
Thy  bright  wave^t  Hosting  to  the  «fc 

Thine  iMnernki  field:^  out^picad, 
And  feel  that  in  the  iMmkoT 
Pnmdlv  shall  thv  nNX>rded 

In  lat(*r  dayi*  be  rend. 


Yet  while  I  gaze  upon  thee 

All  glorioujt  a.4  thou  art, 
A  cloud  \*  n*>ting  un  mj  brow, 

A  weight  u|)on  my  heart- 
To  me — in  all  thy  jouthtfol 
Thou  art  a  land  of  cares  antricd* 

( )f  tmtold  hoytefi  and  fean. 
Thou  art — yi't  not  for  thee  I  friWi 
Itut  for  the  far-<iff  land  I  lenvCi 

I  IfMik  on  thee  with 


(  2:»o  > 


183(Ma] 


LAURA   M.    THURSTON. 


261 


0 !  brightly,  brightly  glow  thy  skies, 

In  fliiimiiier's  sunny  hours ! 
The  green  earth  seems  a  paradise 

Arrayed  in  summer  flowers ! 
But  oh  I  there  is  a  knd  afar 
Whose  bkies  to  me  are  brighter  far, 

Along  the  Atlantic  shore  I 
For  eyes  beneath  their  radiant  shrine, 
In  kindlier  glances  answered  mine— 

Qin  these  their  light  restore  ? 

Upon  the  lofty  bound  I  stand, 

That  parts  the  East  and  West ; 
Before  me — lies  a  fairy  land ; 

Behind — a  home  of  rest ! 
Here,  hope  her  wild  enchantment  flings. 
Portrays  all  bright  and  lovely  things. 

My  footsteps  to  allure — 
But  there,  in  memory's  light,  I  see 
All  that  was  once  most  dear  to  me — 

My  young  heart's  cynosure  I 


THE  PATHS  OP  LIFE.' 

Go  forth — the  world  is  very  wide, 
And  many  paths  before  ye  lie, 

Devious,  and  dangerous, and  untried; 
Go  forth  with  wary  eye ! 

Go !  with  the  heart  by  grief  unbow'd  I 

Go !  ere  a  shadow  or  a  cloud 
Hath  dimm'd  the  laughing  sky  ! 

But,  lest  your  wand'ring  footsteps  stray. 

Choose  ye  the  straight,  the  narrow  way. 

Go  forth — the  world  is  very  fair. 
Through  the  dim  distance  as  ye  gaze. 

And  mark,  in  long  perspective,  there, 
The  scenes  of  coming  days. 

Orbs  of  bright  radiance  gem  the  sky. 

And  fields  of  glorious  beauty  lie 


*  An  addren  to  a  eUn  of  girls,  about  leaving  lehool,  in 
Indiana. 


Beneath  their  orient  rays ; 
Yet,  ere  their  altered  light  grow  dim, 
Seek  ye  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  I 

Gro  forth — within  your  distant  homes 
There  are  fond  hearts  that  mourn  your 
stay; 

There  are  sweet  voices  bid  ye  ocHne ; 
Go— ye  must  hence — away  I 

No  more  within  the  woodland  bowers 

Your  hands  may  wreathe  the  summer  flow- 
ers. 
No  more  your  footsteps  stray ; 

To  hail  the  hearth,  and  grove  and  glen, 

Oh,  when  will  ye  return  again  ? 

Not  when  the  summer  leaves  shall  fade, 

As  now  they  fade  from  shrub  and  tree. 
When  autumn  winds,  through  grove  and 
glade, 
Make  mournful  melody ; 
The  long,  bright,  silent  autumn  days. 
The  sunset,  with  its  glorious  blaze. 

These  shall  return — but  ye 

Though  time  may  all  beside  restore. 
Ye  may  come  back  to  us  no  more. 

Gro— ye  have  dreamed  a  fairy  dream, 
Of  cloudless  skies  and  fadeless  flowers. 

Of  days,  whose  sunny  lapse  shall  seem 
A  fete  'mid  festal  bowers  1 

But  of  the  change,  the  fear,  the  strife. 

The  gathering  clouds,  the  storms  of  life. 
The  blight  of  autumn  showers. 

Ye  have  no  vision — ^these  must  be 

Unvailed  by  stem  reality ! 

Ye  yet  must  wake  (for  time  and  care 
Have  ever  wandered  side  by  side), 
To  find  earth  false,  as  well  as  fair. 

And  weary  too,  as  wide. 
Ye  yet  must  wake,  to  find  the  glow 
Hath  faded  from  the  things  below. 

The  glory  and  the  pride  I 
To  bind  the  willow  on  the  brow, 
Wreathed  with  the  laurel  garland  now. 


252 


LAURA   M.   THURSTON. 


[ISSMI 


But  wlu;nffbre  shall  I  break  the  Bpcll 
That  luaked  the  future  8eem  m>  bright  ? 

Why  to  the  younjr,  phid  spirit  tell 
or  withering  ami  blight? 

T  were  better:  when  the  meteor  died, 

A  Btoadier,  holier  light  Bhall  rise. 
Cheering  the  gloomy  night : 

A  light,  when  otliers  fade  away, 

Still  tiliining  on  to  perfect  daj. 


Go  then — and  when  no  more  are  seen 
The  faces  tluit  ye  now  behold — 

When  years,  long  years  shall  inten'ene, 
Sadly  and  darkly  told — 

When  time,  with  stealthy  hand,  shall  trace 

His  mystic  lines  on  every  face. 
Oh,  may  his  touch  untold 

The  promise  of  that  better  part, 

The  unfading  spring-time  of  the  heart  I 


TUE  GREEN  HILLS  OF  MY  FATUER-LAND. 

The  green  hills  of  my  father-land 

In  dreams  still  greet  my  view ; 
I  «»e  once  more  the  wave-girt  strand — 

Tlie  ocean-depth  of  blue — 
Tlie  sky — the  glorious  sky,  outspread 

Al)ove  their  calm  repa"*e — 
The  river,  o'er  its  rocky  be<l 

Still  singing  as  it  flows — 
Tht;  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  hours, 

When  men  go  up  to  pniy — 
The  sunlight  nesting  on  the  flowers — 
The  birds  that  sing  among  the  bowers, 

Tlirough  all  the  summer  day. 

Liuul  of  my  birth ! — mine  early  love ! 

Once  more  thine  airs  I  breathe ! 
I  see  thy  proud  hills  tower  aliove — 

Thy  gn^en  vales  slrep  tx'neath — 
Thy  gmves,  thy  rocks,  thy  murmuring 

'  rills, 

All  rise  before  mine  eyes, 


The  dawn  of  morning  oo  thj  hillsi 
Thy  gorgeous  ninfet  akiei^^ 

Tliy  forots,  from  whose  deep  raeni 
A  thousand  streanu  have  birik, 

Glad'ning  the  looelj  wilderncM^ 

And  filling  the  green  nlentneM 
With  melody  and  mirtlL 

I  wonder  if  my  home  woqld 

As  lovely  as  of  yore  I 
I  wonder  if  the  mountain 

Goes  singing  bj  the  door! 
And  if  the  flowers  stiU  Uoom  mm  fin^ 

And  if  the  woodbines  cfimb^ 
As  when  I  used  to  tnun  them  that, 

In  the  dear  olden  time ! 
I  wonder  if  the  birds  stiU  nag 

U|MXi  the  garden  tree. 
As  sweetly  as  in  that  sweet  Spriag 
Whose  golden  memories  gently  bring 

So  many  dreams  to  me  I 


I  know  that  there  bath  been  a 

A  change  oVr  hall  and  hearth ! 
Fai-es  and  footsteps  new  and 

Al)Out  my  phice  of  birth ! 
The  heavens  above  are  still  as  br^ 

As  in  the  days  gone  by, 
But  vanished  is  the  beaeon  lifghl 

That  cheered  my  morning  skj! 
And  hill,  and  vale,  and  wooded  glm. 

And  rock,  and  murmuring 
That  wore  such  glorious  beaotj 
Would  sei'm,  f^hould  I  return 

The  record  of  a  dream  I 


I  mourn  not  for  my  childhood's 

Sini*e.  in  the  far-oflf  West, 
'N<'ath  suimier  skies,  in 

Mv  heart  hath  found  its 
I  mfuim  not  for  the  hills  and 

That  chained  my  steps  so  lon^ 
Yet  >till  I  see  them  in  mj  d 

And  hail  them  in  my 


1830-40.] 


LAURA   M.   THURSTON. 


253 


And  often  bj  the  hearth-fire's  blaze, 

When  winter  eves  shall  come, 
We'll  sit  and  talk  of  other  days, 
And  sing  the  well-remembered  lays 
Of  my  Green  Mountain  Home. 


I  FEAR  NOT  THY  FROWN. 

I  FEAB  not  thy  frown,  and  I  ask  not  thy 
smile ; 
Thy  loye  has  no  value  for  me ! 
The  spell  of  thine  eye  can  no    longer 
beguile — 
My  heart  from  enchantment  is  free  I 
Thou  may'st  whisper  the  language  of  love 
as  before, 
Thou  may'st  speak  of  the  past,  if  thou 
wilt; 
It  can  only  the  record  of  falsehood  restore, 
Or  awake  the  remembrance  of  guilt. 

Time  was,  when  I  dreamed  'twould  be 
death  to  my  heart. 

To  live  disunited  to  thee ; 
That  life,  from  thy  love  and  thy  presence 
apart, 

Must  a  desolate  wilderness  be ! 
I  loved — ^with  a  love  how  devoted  and  deep, 

Twere  vanity  now  to  recall  I 
I  loved,  O,  too  truly  I  for  now  I  could  weep. 

That  I  e'er  should  have  loved  thee  at  all ! 

We  meet  in  the  throng,  and  we  join  in  the 
danoe, 
And  thy  voice  is  as  sofl,  and  as  low ; 
And  thine  eye  hath  as  deep,  and  as  earn- 
est glance, 
As  it  had  when  we  met  long  ago. 
But  I  think  of  the  past,  as  a  vision  thaf  s 
flown; 
Of  thy  love,  as  a  dream  of  the  night : 
The  magic  is  gone  from  thy  look  and  thy 
tone — 
Thy  falsehood  hath  put  it  to  flight 


And  coldly,  aye  coldly  I  I  gaze  on  thee  now, 

Or  turn  from  thy  presence  away; 
I  heed  not  the  beauty  that  dwells  on  thy 
brow — 
A  beauty  to  win  and  betray. 
Like  a  sepulcher,  garnished,  and  &ir   to 
the  sight. 
Though  filled  with  corruption  and  death — 
The  cheek  may  be  fair,  and  the  eye  may  be 
bright, 
While  a  false  heart  is  beating  beneath. 


PARTING  HYMN.* 

Brethren,  we  are  parting  now. 

Here  perchance  to  meet  no  more ! 
Well  may  sorrow  cloud  each  brow. 

That  another  dream  is  o'er. 
Life  is  fraught  with  changeful  dreams. 

Ne'er  to-morrow  as  to-day ; 
Scarce  we  catch  their  transient  gleams. 

Ere  they  melt  and  fade  away. 

But,  upon  the  brow  of  night. 

See  the  Morning  Star  arise ; 
With  unchanging,  holy  light 

Gilding  all  the  eastern  skies. 
Bethlehem's  Star !  of  yore  it  blazed, 

Gleaming  on  Judea's  brow. 
While  the  wondering  Magi  gazed ; 

Brethren,  let  it  guide  us  now : 

Guide  us  over  land  and  sea, 

Where  the  tribes  in  darkness  mourn, 
Where  no  Gospel  jubilee 

Bids  the  ransomed  ones  return ; 
Or,  beneath  our  own  blue  skies, 

Where  our  green  savannas  spread. 
Let  us  bid  that  Star  arise. 

And  its  beams  of  healing  shed. 


*  Written  for  the  AnniTersary  SxerciMS  at  the  New 
Albany  Theological  Seminary. 


254 


LAUUA    M.   THURSTON. 


[ItfSMI 


Shiill  we  (shrink  from  fiain  and  strife 

While  our  Captain  leudii  the  way ! 
Shnll  we,  for  the  love  of  life, 

Cast  a  Saviour's  love  away  ? 
KatlitM*  irird  his  armor  on, 

Fi<;ht  the  battles  of  the  Lord, 
Till  tlie  victorv  be  won, 

An<l  we  gain  our  long  reward. 

Oh  !  may  many  a  radiant  gem, 

Souls  rede«'med  by  us  from  woe, 
Sparkle  in  the  diadem 

Tliut  our  Iwieiuler  shall  lx»stow. 
Chanjft;  and  trial  here  may  eome ; 

But  no  grief  may  haunt  the  tireast, 
Wh<*n  we  reaeh  our  heavenly  home, 

Find  our  everlasting  re<»t 

Bn»ken  is  our  household  band, 

Hushed  awhile  our  evening  hymn; 
But  there  \r  a  betttT  land, 

WlH*re  no  tears  the  eve  shall  dim  I 
Tlirrt  is  heanl  no  farewell  tone. 

On  that  bright  and  |>e2K*('ful  shore ; 
Tlu-n*  no  parting  grief  is  known. 

For  they  meet  to  {uirt  no  more. 


A  DREAM  OF  LIPEL 


DKKr  within  a  vale 


Upon  its  banks,  the  modeit  riolec. 
The    yellow  cowslip,  'and    tbe   iMffvUl 

grew! 
The  wild  rose,  and  the  egliptiiw^  fa 

fumed 
The  air  with  frngnince,  and  the  mooBUii 

thyme 
Gave  richer  odor  to  the  bahnj  gjale. 
That  gently  kissed  it  on  its  rockj  bed. 

To  us,  there  was  a  ncret  cfaam,  wkid 

gave 
Double  attraction  to  the  altractm  ao^e: 
It  was   the   charm  of   Lore  that  dvd 

within, 
The  sacred  union  of 
Twas  thi«  that  made  the 

so  bright. 
The  air  so  fragrant,  and  the  gale  m 
Twas  this  tlmt  gave  such  btamj  to  ih 

flowers; 
And  made  tlic  porch,  with 

bine  twined, 
Si'cm  like  the  entrance  into 


O I  'twas  a  luxury  of  hliss  to  dvcD 
In  the  sweet  quiet  of  lliat  pleasaol 
To  And  the  lover — husbandt  met  ia  Me: 
The  pritle  of  manhood,  and  the  gmeetf 

youth ; 
Th(*  lotly  brow — the  inteUednal  cya 
T\w  voice  whoM  tones  of  melody  oorii 

htili 


Our    wittage    stoo<l,  hid    by  enilxjwrring' Awake  a  thrill  of  rapture, 

tn><'^.  And    unacknowledged,  once,  lo  Bij  o** 

heart ; 
To  love,  and  f<H'l  it  were  no  nime  to  bvPi 


No    iilli-    footsteps    w:uidcred    nc:u';    no 

voin', 
Sav«*  the  >w«ct  >iii^iii^  of  the  hinis  that' An<l  fiml  tii:it  hive  n*tumed,  with  infefws: 


hid 


Tif  ntr<r  up  the  inof'nse  of  the  heart, 


Tl.'-ii-  !:•  \uU  aniiil  the  fi»1i:iLr(\  and  poured  A  willing;  --ai'ritirf,  unto  our  God 

r<>:r!i  And   to  caeli  other — thus  to  share  otf 

S;::iin'  nf  unwonted  nielndv:  or  when*       !  l»li--«, 

j 

Tli«'  -tuiMiIrt  "otilv  ripplrd  ilinMi;:l»  the,  And  fei'l  it  hut  the  foreta<te  of 

dai«', 
(■t[i(lv  nicandtTing  with  unwearietl  song. 


Beyond    the   grave.     Was   it   not  hifp 


ness  ? 


JAMES  W.  WARD. 


1838,  a  littie  book,  entitled  "  Yorick  and  other  Poems,"  *  was  printed  at  Cleve- 

It  was,  we  believe,  the  first  yolame  of  poems  published  in  northern  Ohio,  and 

ritics  of  the  newspapers  and  magazines  of  that  day  received  it  with  words  of 

x)us  encouragement,  though  but  few  had  ever  heard  the  name,  at  the  head  of  this 

by  which  "  Yorick  "  was  known  outside  of  literary  circles, 
mes  Warren  Ward  was  bom  at  Newark,  New  Jersey,  in  the  year  1818.  His 
r,  who  was  an  influential  bookseller  and  publisher  in  that  city,  died  when  James 
bur  years  old.  He  grew  to  be  a  studious  lad,  and  was  a  Franklin  medal  boy  in 
Boston  High  School.  He  particularly  cultivated  the  natural  sciences,  and  about 
me  he  was  promoted  from  boyhood  to  manhood,  became,  at  Cincinnati,  a  favorite 

of  John  Locke,  Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the  Ohio  Medical  College.  Mr. 
I  was  a  contributor  to  the  OincinncUt  Mirror,  The  Hesperian,  and  other  early 
licals  of  the  West,  in  both  prose  and  verse.  He  became  well  known  as  a  bota- 
uid  was  associated  with  J.  A.  Warder,  in ,  1855,  in  the  management  of  The 
rm  HorticfiUuraL  Review,  He  was  for  several  years  corrector  of  the  press  and 
ry  referee  of  the  publishing  house  of  Henry  W.  Derby  &  Co.,  and  was,  in  1856 
Q  1857,  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Oincinnati  Gazette.  Articles  of  merit  from 
3n  have  been  published  by  the  American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of 
ce.  He  has  cultivated  music  with  success,  and  is  the  author  of  sacred  pieces 
1  have  been  much  admired  and  widely  used.  '^ 

veral  of  Mr.  Ward's  minor  poems  have  been  very  popular.  His  "  Musketo 
"  was  published  in  a  leading  journal  of  England,  and  commended  as  '^  a  fine 
nen  of  English  poetry."  ^  Childish  Wisdom  "  has  been  made  known  as  widely 
najority  of  the  miscellaneous  journals  of  our  country  are  circulated, 
e  poems  written  by  Mr.  Ward  since  1838,  have  not  been  collected,  but  it  is 
ible  that  he  will  issue  them  before  another  year  expires,  in  a  volume  which  he 
•ses  to  entitle,  "  Home-Made  Verses  and  Stories  in  Rhyme."  It  will  contain 
nly  the  best  poems  Mr.  Ward  has  contributed  to  the  newspapers  and  magazines, 
jveral  that  have  not  yet  been  given  to  the  public  Two  of  the  poems  furnished  by 
hr  this  volume — ^ Niagara"  and  "The  Autumn  Song" — are  here  first  published, 
tiong  the  afterpieces  or  parodies  of  Henry  W.  Longfellow's  "  Hiawatha "  was 
"rom  the  pen  of  Mr.  Ward.  It  was  published  in  the  Oincinnati  Gazette  a 
lays  after  "  Hiawatha  "  reached  that  city.  Its  title  was  "  Higher- Water,"  and 
•ported  to  be  a  legend  of  disturbance  in  the  dominions  of  Scag-rag,  King  of 
rf-rats,  on  account  of  an  unexpected  freshet.  It  contains  many  capital  hits, 
[uote  a  few  lines,  showing  its  spirit  and  plan  : 


*T<nick  and  other  Poems.    Clerel&nd,  Ohio :  Sanford  h  Lott,  1888.    8to,  pp.  72. 

(  255  ) 


IM 


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.  _•  //.\\  y-  .1,"  r.ij 


li  ..'•    •■■  '1  ■.-  ■    4.  1  ■;  k  •..'  ••:  i'.^  :  .:- 


^  a.'-rnj    :»!.'l    1  ■••A     i|.-    \\a-    iTit.-r':;.- i 
i..il^l!.  •:•  li'-i  II  _!i.  :-.•, ai.r.  aii-i  :'.;>  i. 


«■.•■.    '•■. 


V 


!:■ 

II   >. 
II 


■  I  : 


'  •    ■   •    •   •  .1-. 
,     •   '.  .. 
■       —  -  •     •       . 

*        ■      •  M  ■      *  k 

•  »      ■      >     •  '     •  *  ft  • 


JAMES    W.    WARD. 


S67 


uing,  what  a  Burgiag, 
ghty  rush  of  waters, 
rmy  of  destruction, 
)wn  iD  wrath  and  fury, 
wn  the  handsome  river, 
iwn  with  Higher-water, 
1  raging,  mad  with  l\iry, 
}wn  to  fight  the  big  ratn, 
;lm  the  skulking  Wharf-rats 
estroying  deluge, 
i-most,  top-moHt  billow, 
ve  that  surged  the  highest, 
•te-paw,  the  white  wave, 
a  bridled  cat-tish, 
l-o-ger,  the  cat-fish, 
bearing  magii?terial, 
Eirelenting  brigand, 
ofty  Higher-water  ; 
d  him,  with  the  baggage, 


Swam  Mik-nok,  the  snapping-turtle, 
Swam  behind  him  with  the  baggage, 
Mik-nok,  prince  of  snapping-turtles. 
Thus  he  came,  was  thus  attended, 
He,  the  ruthless  Higher-water, 
Sweeping  down  the  handsome  river. 
Fled  the  minks,  and  fled  the  mask-rats, 
Fled  the  craw-fish  in  their  terror, 
Fled  the  otters,  fled  the  beavers, 
¥\iid  the  snakes,  and  fled  the  fleld-mice, ' 
All  wan  flight,  and  haate,  and  panic, 
Ah  the  gathering  force  swept  onward  ; 
Not  a  creature  stayed  or  lingered, 
Not  a  stump  could  keep  its  footing. 
Not  a  plank  of  any  platform 
Conld  maintain  its  loose  portion ; 
Every  thing  was  put  in  motion, 
As  the  flood  poured  down  the  valley. 


at  did  Higher-water  challenge  Seag-rag,  who  hastened  away  to  a  sacred 
3  empire  of  Bam-ba-loo-za,  and  summoned  a  trio  — 


eminently  holy. 
lervice  long  und  faithful, 
'ed  the  gift  of  power  : 
action  and  of  suflfering, 
duty  and  of  triumph, 


Power  icsistless  and  unyielding, 
Girt  supreme,  supreme  endowment 
Of  the  ancient  Bam-ba-loo-za, 
To  the  wisest  and  the  truest, 
To  the  purest  of  his  children. 


answered  the  King's  pathetic  appeal  for  "  help  in  time  of  need,**  and  — 


the  waters  swimming, 
boldly  on  the  water, 
)  goes  a  line  of  railroad, 
»  middle  of  the  river, 
y  three  together ; 
le  together  swimming, 
ith  and  strong  in  courage, 
""ering,  never  doubting, 
stioning  or  pausing. 
Idle  of  the  river 
ove  these  three  topjether. 
•  took  a  moment's  breathing. 
noment,  then  proceeded ; 

;tom  of  the  river, 
icontincntly  head  first ; 

r  was  therefore  conqueror;   Higher-water  no  longer  invaded  his  domm- 
lere  was  great  rejoicing  among  his  grateful  subjects. 

,  Mr.  Ward  went  from  Cincinnati  to  New  York  city,  where  he  devotes 
musical  and  metrical  composition,  and  to  various  duties  connected  with  the 
extensive  publishing  houses. 


Cracked  the  bottom  with  their  strongs  heads, 
With  their  strong  heads,  with  their  stoat  heads 
Knocked  a  piece  out,  knocked  a  hole  in. 
And  went  through  without  a  scratch,  Sir, 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  good  rats. 
To  the  land  of  their  hereafter. 

Like  the  water  through  a  tunnel, 
Like  the  water  from  a  bottle. 
Like  the  water  down  a  tin  spout. 
Whirling  in  a  mighty  whirlpool. 
Through  the  opening  swiftly  sinking, 
Went  the  waters  of  the  river, 
Of  the  swelling  0-pe-he-le. 


17 


258 


JAMES    W.    WARD. 


[lOi 


With  the  world  around  from  his 
SONG  OF  THE  MOSQUITO.  out. 

He  heedri  not  the  buu  of  mj 

And  wfatm  a  new  image  hai  brake  oi 

In  the  dreamy  hour  of  night  I'll  hie,  "??"•» 

AVhon  the  lium  is  hushed  of  the  weaiy  fly,  ^^e  he  gives  it  existence,  HI  bkc,  IH  k 

"When  the  hunps  ore  lit,  and  tlie  curtiiins 

drawn. 
And  8port  on  my  wings  till  the  morning's 

dawn. 
In  the  halls  where  the  hours  go  joyously 

In  the  cluunber  hushed  where  the  sleepers 

lie. 
In  the  garden-bower,  where  the  primrose 

smiles. 
And  the  chirping  cricket  the  hour  beguiles; 
III  these  I'll   8|)ort  through  tlie  summer 

night, 
And  mortals  to  vex,  T\l  bite,  Fll  bite. 


II. 

Tliorc  is  one  I  view  with  a  hostile  eye ; 
A  flame  of  pride  in  his  breast  I  spy ; 
lie  breathes  in  the  flute  with  a  master's 

skill, 
And  list'ning  crowds  the  rich  strains  fill 
AVith  the  rapturous  thrill  of  melody ; 
But  he  carries  his  head  so  haughtily, 
ril  play  him  a  trick ;  in  his  happiest  swell, 
When  the   lingering  trill,  with   a   magic 

spell. 
Holds  all  entranced,  1*11  take  my  flight. 
And  {K>p  on  his  na-^e,  and  I'll  bite,  1*11  bite. 


III. 


IT. 

And  the  long-courted  Tisioo  ahail  vni 

while  I, 
In  a  snug  little  comer,  will  watch  Ub 

shy, 
As  he  thumps  his  brow  in  a  fercriili  n 
And  dashes  his  pen  o'er  tlie  blotted  f^ 
And  I  see  a  young  maid  in  her  chM 

napping, 
And  I  know  that  love  at  her  heart  ii  i 

ping; 
She  dreams  of  a  youth,  and  miles  ia  li 
As  she  puts  up  her  lipe  to  reeeire  Ui  f 

kiss; 
But  she  shall  not  taste  of  the  gmk 

light. 
For  I'll  light  on  her  lipe,  and  IH  biH^i 

bite. 


THE  WORD  OF  PBOMBI. 


WiiF.x  o'er  thy  heart  comes  aorrow'f  U||| 
As  o*er  the  day  steal  shadei  of  B%bl; 

When  hope  has  fled. 

And  joy  is  dead^ 
And  thv  head  in  wretchedness 


T)iiTe*s  a  poet  I  know;  in  the  still  mid- 1  Beneath  the  weight  of  fortune's  fivn; 


AVheii  summer  friends  pass  bj 
And  Uiir^  U'dim  thine  eye;'- 


night 
Il«'  |ilies  the  |>en  by  a  tjiper's  li;rht ; 
Ami,  ut'urietl  uf  tarth.  in  a  wurid  of  his  Ut'Ci'ivi*  the  pnmiise  tnihtingly, 

n\\  II,  .  **  A>  i^  iliy  fhiy  thy  strength  shall  hb' 

\\  lili  rjin»-v  he  rami  lies,  wlnre  flowers  an* 

(  M   t.i'Ii  |i  -<>  hue.  and  hf  ini:i^i><i  then*  Wli<  ii  «-;ii'tIi  has  pruvc<I  a  mockfiyf 

A  •  II  iiiiin-  til  i\iir->hip  in  the  pun*  still  air.  And  t'aiih  ami  lf)ve.  «till  sought  by 


JAMES    W.   WARD.                                                  269 

ch  no  more, 

mble  door ; 

AUTUMN  SONG. 

innocence  reject, 

The  melancholy  days  an  oome, 

d  fthrink  from  such  neglect ; 

The  nddeel  of  the  yeer. 

id  mocks,  and  pride 

AyofU. 

Be  deride ; — 

The  merry-making  days  are  come, 

omise  speaks  to  thee. 

The  gayest  of  the  year ; 

thy  strength  shall  be.** 

When  summer's  dust  and  heat  are  past^ 

TTT 

And  the  air  is  sharp  and  dear. 

wastes  thy  feeble  blood, 

The  day  with  social  comforts  rife, 

rm  the  opening  bud, 

The  day  of  mirth  and  glee; 

s  thy  life; 

The  season  when  earth's  jovial  saint 

feverish  strife 

Shakes  off  his  lethargy. 

T  aching  breast. 

llow  of  its  rest ; 

The  wrestling  winds,  in  pastime,  heave 

nerve  is  pained. 

The  trees  athlete  and  stout ; 

iber  strained 

And  underneath  their  writhing  limbs 

s  promised  thee, 

The  leaves  are  whirled  about. 

'  thy  strength  shall  be." 

The  rabbit  gallops,  wild  with  life. 

IV. 

With  brisk  and  crackling  tread ; 

age  shall  overtake 

The  dogs  with  tingling  blood  pursue— 

irs,  and  thou  shalt  wake 

Who  mourns  the  summer  fled? 

lOpe's  dear  dream. 

B  supreme, 

The  summer,  silent  and  oppressed 

id  pleasures  never  came. 

With  dullness  and  repose; 

danhood,  still  the  same — 

When,  through    the  languid    pulse,  the 

to  wither  then, 

blood 

ight  of  men, 

In  weary  ripples  flows. 

Bveak ; — God  speaks  to  thee. 

thy  strength  shall  be." 

But  now,  it  springs  and  bounds  along, 

With  weariness  at  strife ; 

V. 

Man,  like  a  prancing  courser,  pants 

hat  uncertain  hour 

With  energy  and  life. 

with  Heaven-commissioned 

Who  mourns  the  summer?    Rather,  who 

•  thy  soul 

With  rapture  welcomes  not 

life's  goal ; 

The  bracing  breeze,  the  quickened  heart. 

;ering,  loth  to  go, 

The  drowsy  days  forgot  ? 

is  beating  faint  and  slow, 

I  its  weakness  feels, 

The  woods  with  life  and  joy  resound, 

reveals 

The  solitude  is  glad. 

—Faith  whispers  thee, 

IVIusic  on  every  bough  is  heard. 

•  thy  strength  shall  be." 

Tliere's  not  a  creature  sad. 

260 


JAMES    W.    WABb. 


[lOMI. 


Now,  when  the  gniM«hoppi*r8  lie  8tiU 

And  torpid  on  the  ground, 
SjMders  desert  their  looms,  and  flies 

In  sheltered  holes  are  found ; 

When  tlie  beetle  liides  beneath  tlie  bark^ 
With  hushed  and  folded  wing ; 

And  honey-futtened  chrysaHds 
In  silken  hammocks  swing ; 

And  all  the  noisy  insect  race, 

A  rich,  inviting  spoil. 
Are  into  winter  quaitcrs  gone. 

Weary  of  ^ummer^s  toil  ^— 

Now,  to  our  gardens  and  our  woods. 

With  voi(*e8  guy  and  sweet. 
Come  back  the  sin^in^:;  binls,  disptrrsed 

By  Fummei-'s  sultry  heat ; 

The  social  robin,  and  the  wren 

Piping  his  triple  lay ; 
The  red-bird  and  the  s]>arrow. 

And  the  aeoni-hunting  jay. 

In  troops  they  come,  with  chattering  call 

And  dainty  melody. 
Winning  our  oars  their  songs  to  hear. 

Our  eyes  their  plumes  to  see. 

Not  one  is  missing ;  night  and  mom 

They  gambol  in  and  out 
The  breezy  woo<ls  and  pi|)0  and  chirp, 

A  gay,  delirious  rout. 

I  To.  for  the  Autumn ! — for  the  days 

Of  vigorous  delights ; 
I'^or  <K*ud(ling  clouds,  and  flying  gale*, 

And  clear  and  sparkling  nights. 


inAGARA. 

Rapt  in  amuement,  awe  and 

ing  me, 
Stood  I  abue,  in  MlePflr,gmiiytlwglnfcHT. 
Gazing,  delighted,  down  the  brUt 

dering, 
Whence,  with  a  proud  oouenl^  t^ 

tnuiquilly, 
Phicidly,  take  their  fearful  leap,  Nh 


Solemnly,  slowly,  calm  in 

Bubble  and  spray,  and  twinkling  diep^  al 

vanishing. 
There,  in  a  long,  unbroken  fraot. 
Firm  and  united,  sweeps  a  line  of  i 
Leapeth  thy  smooth  and  liqoid 

lecledly. 


So  have  I  seen    eh,  river  wild 

tiful. 
Not  only  thus  rescmbleal  thoa  ear  pM 

ones — 
So  have  I  seen  descend,  serene  mi 

dent. 
Genius  no  more,  nor  sparkling  wity 

ing  it, 
Down  to  the  tomb,  the  poetTs  aoa^ 

missive  ly. 


In  the  tierc<'  rapids,  where  tlie 

fcwrelly. 
Under  the  flowing  current,  lie  in  wak  ir 

the**. 
Cutting  and  kuihing  thy  torn 

toiilv. 
Then*  art  thou  like,  O  River, 

tude. 
Like  the  yumv  sihiI  with  life-toil 

manfully. 


Hither  and  Ui  it  her  whirled,  i 
tinite, 
W1h»  mourns  the  Summer?     I^ither,  who  Wiiidlnir and  tuniing, still 

>\'ith  nipt  tin*  Wf>l<H>nies  not  les-lv. 

Tip*  bnifing  bn'(»ze.  the  (piickened  heart,   'Thu>  art  thou  dashed  and  driTca; 
And  drowsy  days  forgot  ?  i         as  turbulent. 


83(M0.] 


JAMES    W.    WARD. 


261 


V'hirleth  the  poef e  spinning  brain,  in- 
cessantly ; 

)ften,  poor  brain,  dashed  ronnd  on  waves 
tempestuoas. 

Cometh  an  end  ere  long  to  toil  and  mock*> 
ery; 

Dnemiea,  cares  and  shows,  and  juggling 
fnppenes, 

tinsel  enticements,  masks,  and  life-worn 
vanities — 

VhaX  hath  the  waking  soal,  redeemed,  re- 
generate, 

iThi^'ring  with  death,  to  do  with  these  im- 
pediments? 

)'en  as  thy  waters,  here,  in  calm  transpa- 
rency, 

lend  o'er  the  brink  of  this  abyss  precipi- 
tous, 

himmering  foam,  and  froth,  and  flashing 
jewelry, 

catlered  behind  thee — so,  in  sweet  seren- 

ity, 

reed  from  its  clogs,  the  soul  puts  on  eter- 
nity. 

!aste  there  is  none,  but  only  strength  and 
readiness; 

aabks  and  shams  are  put  aside  disdain- 
fully; 

othing  beyond  can  pass  but  truth  and 
purity ; 

)  on  thy  breast  is  nothing  seen,  Niagara, 

ive  tlie  blue  image  of  the  deep  sky  over 
thee. 

Ion. — ^Tbe  imnMaMaa  of  Uiis  poem,  whkh  i>  now  flnl 
bltobed,  if  pecuU&r,  and  perfaap*  new ;  so  far  u  the 
tbor  U  eoDCArned,  it  Is  quite  m>.  It  was  oonBtmeted 
identallj  to  a  defense  of  the  English  hexameter,  as  es- 
-iallj  exemplified  in  *'  Erangeline, -'  the  most  charming 
1  mosieal  poem  of  American  origin.  The  Kngilsh 
gvace  is  manifestly  capable  of  rich,  fluent,  and  hax^ 
nious  expression,  not  only  in  hexameters  and  pen- 
wlers,  but  in  other  as  yet  unusual,  and  perhaps 
xmstructed,  meters.  It  iii  believed  there  is  no  Taria- 
s  or  tkoli  in  the  above  Tenes  (or  lioee) ;  each  one  is 
I  any  and  erery  other,  and  conrists  of  flye  ffeet;  a 
tyl,  three  trocheen  (one  of  which  may  be  a  spondee), 
1  a  dactyl.  In  reading,  the  peculiar  accent  of  the  dac- 
sbould  be  regularly  obserred. 


CHILDISH  WISDOM. 

TwAS  the  hour  of  prayer;  and  the  farmer 
stood, 
With  a  thankful  heart  and  a  lowly  mind, 
And  prayed  to  the  Author  of  every  good, 
That  the  Father  of  all  would  be  very 
kind. 
And  bless  His  creatures  with  raiment  and 

food ; 
That  the  blessing  each  day  might  be  re- 
newed, 
That  every  want  might  find  relief. 
And  plenty  for  hunger,  joy  for  grief, 
Be  measured  out  by  the  merciful  One, 
To  all  who  suffered  beneath  the  sun. 

The  prayer  concluded,  the  godly  man 
Went  forth  in  peace  to  inspect  his  farm; 

And  by  his  side,  delighted  ran. 

Glowing  with  every  healthful  charm^ 

His  little  son,  a  sprightly  boy. 

Whose  home  was  love,  and  whose  life  was 
joy. 

And  they  rambled  over  the  golden  fields ; 

And  the  father  said,  ^  The  harvest  yields 

A  plentiful  crop,  my  son,  this  year ; 

My  bams  are  too  small  for  the  grain,  I 
fear." 

And  they  wandered  on,  through  row  upon 

row 
Of  plumy  sheaves,  and  at  length  the  child, 
With  earnest  look,  and  a  rosy  glow 

On  his  shining  cheek,  looked  up  and 

smiled, 
And  said,  ^'  My  father,  do  you  not  pray 
For  the  poor  and  needy  day  by  day. 
That  Grod  the  good  would  the  hungry 

feed?" 
"  I  do,  my  son."    "  Well  I  think,  as  you 

plead"— 
His  eye  waxed  bright,  for  his  soul  shone 

through  it — 
"  That  God,  if  he  had  your  wheat,  would 

doit" 


262 


JAMES    W.  WARD. 


[IttM 


TUE  SUNBEAM. 

Sitting,  musing,  one  bright  daj, 
In  a  quiet,  dreamy  sort  of  wuy — 

A  way  I'm  often  in — 
Amutfcd  'neath  Fanoy*d  strange  control, 
To  watch  the  phantoms  of  tJie  boul 

Their  comedies  begin ; 

To  see,  down  deep  into  my  lieart, 
The  fairy  figures  flit  and  start, 

U])on  the  long,  dim  stage. 
Acting  their  parts  so  cleverly, 
With  magic  art  and  revelr}% 

My  favor  to  engage. 

And  often  thus  my  hours  are  |>assed. 
Regardless  that  I  thence  am  classed, 

By  those  who  only  see 
The  idle  hands  the  bruin  tliat  press. 
With  such  as  waste  in  idleness, 

The  moments  as  they  flee. 

A  little  child  with  life  abounding. 
My  fairy  pantomime  confounding. 

Was  rushing  like  a  storm  ; 
It  wound  the  clock  of  life  anew, 
And  set  it  back  a  year  or  two. 

To  see  the  rogue  perform. 

The  sunbeam  stroam«Ml  across  his  way, 
Straight  as  the  {mth  to  endless  day ; 

A  cord  of  golden  light 
Stretched  from  the  window  to  the  floor, 
With  twinkling  motes  Ix^spangled  o'er, 

Like  a  comet's  train  at  night. 

The  hoy  was  driving,  might  and  main. 
His  chnrgiT  in  and  out  again. 

When  suddenly  he  stop|>ed ; 
The  golden  cord  his  dark  eye  won ; 
A  new  emotion  wik*  lM*gun, 

And  down  the  broomstick  dropped. 

Ilis  little  hand  wa.4  then  applied. 
And  many  a  time  the  feat  was  tried. 
To  gnL<p  the  sfNirkling  train  ; 


His  dumpy  fist  would  ope  wid  doK, 
Translucent  as  the  ruby  wtmt ; 
But  each  attempt  wm  vain. 

Long  time,  with  perBeTering  nd. 
He  strove,  resolved  tbe  thing  to  fcd; 

And  then  he  seized  hit  braoa, 
And  gave  it  up  and  gaily  critdi 
"^  I'll  see  what's  on  the  other  nde^* 

And  galloped  from  the 


And  then  I  thought,  how 
The  semblance  for  the  so 

Like  moths,  deceived  bj  gkie! 
Children  of  riper  age,  w 
Is  wasted  in  the  fmiilesa  stzift 

For  shadows  thin  as  air ! 


Won  by  the  glitter  and  the  thov, 
How  many  life's  true  aim  fcrego^ 

Misled  by  Mammon's  hvl; 
To  gather  gold  their  powers 
And  lind  their  wealth,  whca  Hfe  ii  fai( 

Illuminated  dust ! 

Ah,  happy,  who,  more  wisely  kd, 
Can  sec  the  vail  of  trial  spread. 

Like  a  shadow  d<?ep  and  wide, 
Before  his  soul ;  and  puiv  and  farifK 
The  eternal  source  of  truth  and  %K 

Find  on  the  other  side. 


EPIGRAM. 

Tis  said  that  man  o'er  woman  justly  Hik 
This  to  disprove  will  merit  woman's 
Woman*s  an  angel,  all  mankind 
To  this  the  witness  resolutely 
Woman's  an  angel — let  the  praeepi  MV 
Mark  how  its  truth  his  pride  wiB  itfi 

niand ; 
For  man — the  text,  not  me,  he  bmI  i| 

braitl — 
Wa>  little  lower  tlian  the  angeb 


JAMES   B.  MARSHALL. 


res  BiRNET  Marshall — a  member  of  the  Marshall  family  of  Kentudky, 
is  distinguished  in  oratory  as  well  as  in  song — was  one  of  the  early  literary  edi- 
nd  publishers  of  the  West  He  purchased  the  Cincinnati  Mirror  in  1836,  and 
ing  its  name  to  The  Buckeye,  published  it  for  a  few  months.  In  1837  he  pur- 
1  the  Western  Monthly^  which  had  been  conducted  by  James  Hall,  and  the  Lit- 
Journal^  which  was  edited  by  William  D.  Gallagher,  and  merged  them  under 
ime  of  Western  Monthly  Magazine  and  Literary  Review,  The  Magazine  and  Re- 
vas  published  simultaneously  at  Louisville  and  at  Cincinnati,  William  D.  Gal- 
*  being  associated  with  Mr.  Marshall  in  its  editorship.  It  was  unsuccessful,  and 
larshall  then  turned  his  attention  to  political  writing.  He  has  been  connected 
«yeral  influential  political  papers  in  Kentucky  and  in  Ohio.  In  1857  he  suc- 
1  Samuel  Medary  as  editor  of  the  Ohio  Statesman  at  Columbus.  In  1858  he 
me  of  the  editors  of  The  Capital  City  Facty  and  was  official  reporter  for  the 
Senate  in  1858  and  in  1859. 

.  Marshall  now  resides  in  Cincinnati.  He  is  about  ^y  years  of  age.  Nearly 
3  poems  he  has  written  were  published  in  the  Cincinnati  Mirror  and  the  Western 
try  JoumaL 


TO  EVA :  IN  BER  ALBUM. 

:h  gently  with  thy  taper  flnger, 

e  string  of  some  lov*d  lute, — 

:herish'd  sound  will  with  thee  linger, 

;n  when  the  string  is  mute. 

:hus  Pd  have  thy  thoughts  recur, 

len  far  away  from  thee, 

m  who  leaves  a  tribute  here 

r  friendship's  memory. 

the  azure  sky  above, 

mds  sweep  in  caravans, 

till  the  star  we  watch  and  love, 

memory  remains ; 

gven  through  their  dusky  forms, 

•rshadowing  earth  and  sea, 

?rcely  driv'n  by  winter-storms, 

at  star  is  bright  to  me. 


Gro  grave  thy  name  upon  the  stone 

O'er  which  the  brooklet  hies. 
And  though  with  moss  it  be  o'ergrown, 

And  bid  to  duller  eyes, 
Yet  from  the  eye  of  love  that  name 

Can  never  be  effaced, — 
Time-covered,  'twill  as  plainly  seem 

As  though  but  newly  traced. 

When  starry  night  doth  wane  away 

Beneath  the  sun's  gay  gleam, 
Do  we  forget  the  moon's  pale  ray 

Lost  in  a  gaudier  beam  ? 
Oh  with  the  stars,  I'd  have  thee  keep 

My  friends$hip's  memory, 
And  when   I  gaze  on  heaven's  blue 
deep, 

m  fondly  think  of  thee. 


(263) 


JAMES  G.  DRAKE. 


Jamks  G.  Drake  was  the  youngest  member  of  a  family  celebrated  in  Um 
annals  of  the  West.  Hi.^  fiithor,  Samuel  Drake,  and  his  brocherai 
Samuel,  were,  for  many  years,  gn^at  favorites  among  our  pky-loTing  driwrnfc  Hi 
sister,  Julia  Drake,  mother  of  William  W.  Fosdick  the  poet,  by  her  inl,  and  ol 
Julia  Dean  the  actress,  by  lier  second  husband,  was  al>o  a  favorite.  James  G.  hii 
talent  for  the  stage,  but  Ufver  indulged  it  He  is  known  to  the  publie  chiefly  m  i 
song  writer.  Uis  ^  Tom  Breeze,**  *'  Parlez  Has,**  and  other  melodioiiB  eong^  kv* 
been  widely  admired.  lie  was,  nearly  all  his  life,  a  resident  of  Loniflrille^  FcKiffc] 
and  he  died  in  that  city  on  the  thirteenth  day  of  May,  1850. 

The  Drake  family  was  English,  but  emigrated  to  the  United  States  when  the  tMn 
brothers  were  minors,  and  soon  after  came  to  the  West  James  G.  was  the  hl\rm  w 
vivor.  The  family  name  does  not  now  ap{>ear  in  dramatic  records,  though  two  d  t 
descendants  are  conspicuous  actresses,  Julia  Dean  Ilayue,  above  alluded  to^  tad  Jii 
Drake  Chapman,  daughter  of  Alexander  Drake,  who  married  Julia  Denaic^ 
ed  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago  as  a  tragic  actress,  but  now  living  in 


PARLEZ  BAS. 

Parlfz  has !    The  moon  is  up, 

And  oVt  the  sleepy  throng 
The  mocking-binrs  high  nott^s  are  heard, 

In  wild  and  witching  song- 
No  eye  shall  trace  thy  footsteps  here, 
Ihit  fear  thee  not  while  love  is  near. 

Pnrlez  has  !     Tliough  here  we  meet 

In  silence  d4*ep,  alone. 
No  guilty  tiuKjghts  dUturb  our  souU, 

Nor  wish  we  fear  to  own. 
I'ure  as  the  light  yun  orb  imfuirts. 
Shall  be  the  meeting  of  our  hearts. 

Parlez  has  !     A  g»*nial  bn'ath 
Is  wandering  oVr  earth's  tlowcrs ; 


Their  fragrance  mingles  with  ttj 

And  holy  joy  is  oars. 
p2U*Iez  bas !  and  let  each  tone 
Kcho  the  fondness  of  mine 


Parlez  bas!     And  now  repeat 

Tlie  vuw  those  Kps  once 
Mine  is  a  love  that  cannot  change 

A  heart  that  ne*er  betrajed. 
O  say  that  thou  wilt  love  me  ttilL 
Through  storm  or  sunshinei  goad  er 


Parlez  ba^ !     I  bless  thjr 
The  hist  that  I  may  bear  s 

Swei't  on  my  brow  thy  braath  I  ML 
U}K>n  my  cheek  thy  tear. 

Now  take  thf*e  to  thy  bed  aiid  mtt 

And  bt*  tluHi  bleftrt*d  af  I  am  ble«*A 


(264) 


HARVEY  RICE. 


ET  Rice  is  a  native  of  Massachusetts.  He  was  Ixhh  on  the  eleventh  day  of 
iOO.  Having  graduated  at  Williams  College,  he  emigrated  to  the  West  and 
t  Cleveland,  in  1824,  where  he  opened  a  classical  school,  and  began  to  read 
he  office  of  Reuben  W^ood,  afterward  Grovcmor  of  Ohio.  In  1826  he  was 
to  the  bar,  when  he  entered  into  partnership  with  Mr.  Wood.  In  1829,  he 
ted  a  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and  in  1830  was. chosen  by  the  Democrats  of 
a  county,  as  a  Representative  in  the  General  Assembly.  The  same  year  he 
ointed  agent  for  the  sale  of  the  Western  Reserve  School  Lands,  a  tract  of 
laands  acres,  situated  in  what  is  known  as  the  Virginia  Militaiy  District  of 
le  opened  an  office  in  Millersburg,  Holmes  county,  and  in  the  course  of  three 
d  all  the  lands ;  the  avails  of  which,  nearly  one  hundred  and  fifly  thousand 
rere  paid  into  the  State  Treasury,  and  now  form  a  part  of  the  Irreducible 
!)hio,  on  which  six  per  cent,  interest  is  paid,  for  the  support  of  Common  Schools. 
^3  Mr.  Rice  returned  to  Cleveland,  and  was  appointed  Clerk  of  the  Common 
)urt  of  Cuyahoga  county.  In  1834,  and  again  in  1836,  he  was  the  Demo- 
ididate  for  Congress  in  the  Cleveland  District  He  was  the  first  Democrat 
he  Legislature  from  Cleveland,  and  by  his  effi)rts  the  first  Democratic  news- 
iiblished  in  Cleveland,  was  established.  In  1828  it  was  known  as  the 
'enl  News  Letter,  In  1829  Mr.  Rice  was  the  editor.  It  is  now  The  Ckv^ 
in  Dealer, 

II  Mr.  Rice  was  elected  to  the  State  Senate  by  a  handsome  majority  over 
>etitors.  He  was  therefore  a  member  of  the  first  General  Assembly  of  Ohio, 
;  second  Constitution — a  General  Assembly  upon  which  devolved  the  respon- 
'  reconstructing  the  Statutes  of  the  State.  Mr.  Rice  was  an  influential  mem- 
e  Senate.  He  was  the  author  of  the  bill,  which  became  a  law,  reorganizing 
non  School  system,  and  establishing  new  features — which  the  friends  of  popu- 
.tion  declared  to  be  of  primju-y  importance — ^among  which  may  be  mentioned 
recognition  of  the  doctrine  that  the  property  of  the  State  should  educate  the 
of  the  State ;  that  the  school  system  should  have  an  authorized  head,  and 
ol  libraries  are  expedient 

ice  has  been  twice  married.  He  is  now  a  citizen  of  Cleveland,  in  the  enjoy- 
a  well-earned  income,  which  permits  him,  free  from  the  cares  of  business,  to 
ral  attention  to  enterprises  designed  to  promote  moral  reforms  and  disseminate 
ce.  In  early  life  he  contributed  frequently  to  leading  periodicals,  but  for  a 
i  past,  has  oftener  revised  the  poems  of  other  years  than  composed  new  ones, 
he  collected  his  poems.  The  third  edition,  enlarged,  has  been  issued,  in  a 
J  volume  of  179  duodecimo  pages,  by  Follett,  Foster  &  Co.,  Columbus,  Ohio. 
Jed  **Mt  Vernon  and  other  Poems," 

(  265  ) 


266 


IIAUVEY    RICE. 


[IMtJ 


THE  FAR  WEST. 

O  wiiKKK,  think  ye,  is  now  the  Weflt? 

Thtr  far,  far  West,  the  liind  of  ilreiuns, 
Whose  hills  and  vules,  with  vir(;iii  breast, 
Still  slumber  in  their  nneient  rest. 

Lulled  by  the  voice  of  plaintive  streams! 

Fn»m  Mexifo,  where  airs  are  bland. 

To  Ori'fron's  imp<*tuous  flood, 
Alivady  vale  and  mountain  land 
K<'S(uuj<l  to  that  advancing;  biind, 

Who  proudly  boast  of  Yankee  blood  I 

Nor  distant  is  the  day,  perehance, 

When  yet  these  sons  of  valiant  sires 
Shall  win  their  way,  by  love  or  lanire, 
To  sunnier  clinu*s,  and  e*en  advance 
Beyond  the  Equator's  solar  tires. 

Thus  ra<'<»  to  race  must  ever  yield, 

And  mental  ])ower  it<sunie  the  sway; 
Bniad  as  the  earth  the  ample  field. 
For  thos«»  who  trust  in  virtue's  shield, 
And  Freedom's  baimer  d:ire  di>phiy. 


The  far,  far  West,  'tis  FnMMlom's  now. 

The  ^li\  of  God  to  eartirs  oppres>eil. 
The  land  where  all,  who  take  the  vow, 
No  inoH'  to  kin;:  or  ]>riest  to  l»ow. 

May  c-onie,  and  find   their  wrongs  re- 
dre>sed. 

Aye,  then'  shall  happy  millions  yet 

Hrelaini  the  soil,  and  rnrnd  tht*  mart ; 
Fni-nifn,  wh«>  thrive  bv  t(»il  and  sweat, 
Sjiriiilvlin*;  the  waste  wiih  eitie-t,  M*t 
On  hill  an<l  ])lain,  like  ;;(Mns  of  Art. 

And  there  >liall  thou<:ht  Vft  tlv  afar 
Aliiiitr  till*  wire,  tnun  eliin«-  n*niote. 

And  l>U'iiil  with  tlinu;.'lit.  like  «iar  with  star. 

Wliili-  -tartlin;:  n»lU  the  fmnlii-  rar, 
AipI  iiuiiiit  ri'il  ;:li<lf«  the  ;:aliant  Umt. 


And  there,  unawcd,  the  mind  of  mu, 
Proj^reAsive  still,  shall  »till  aspiit; 
Nor  yield  to  creeds  that  fear  to  scu 
The  mystic  lore  of  Nature's  plan. 
But  still,  insatiate,  aim  the  higher! 

In  sooth,  it  needs  no  prophet*!  eje, 

Westward  to  Ocean's  calmer  tnr^ 
To  see  the  future  there  outvie 
The  ancient  world,  whose  glories  lie 
Pilhired  on  Time's  receding  verge ! 

O  what,  when  centuries  hare  rolled. 

Will  be  this  mighty  Western  Land? 
Her  sons — will  they  be  himTe  and  bold, 
And  still  defend  her  banner's  fold  ? 
Her  holy  altars — ^will  they  Mand? 

The  link  that  binds  the  Sisteihood. 

Say,  will  it  bri^rhten  and  grow  mn»^ 
And  men  bt?ar  rule,  the  great  and  fooi 
Who  shun  dis^nsion,  strife,  and  blooi 

Yet  cleave  to  right,  nor  yield  to 


Fear  not !  with  holier  influence  jet. 

The  v(*ars  shall  come  which  Godoidva 
When  Fret^lom's  bounds  shall  not  be  id 
Nor  man  his  fellow  man  fbr|>et. 
In  blind  pursuit  of  sordid 


THE  VISIONABT. 


A  CHILD  of  peniui 

Not  bn*<l  in  seliooU, 
He  seonis  the  worklV  proud 

Thou<;h  ranked  with  foolii 
And  ludd>  a  cimi verse  that's  refined 
With  Nature,  and  with  Natore's  lU 

Nor  iI«M>4  hi*  delve  with  those 

Whodt'lve  fur  gold; 
Hut.  nipt  in  f*si!m  repose, 

Like  *«M'r  of  oM, 


184(MK).] 


HARVEY   RICE. 


267 


He  walks  with  Grod  the  stellar  deep, 
Where  tides  of  light  unbounded  sweep. 

And  wonders  why  were  made 

The  earth  and  stars, 
Whose  music  rolls,  unstayed, 

In  golden  bars ; 
Nor  strives  to  quench  the  subtle  fire 
That  wakes  his  soul  to  high  desire. 

Though  all  that  man  calls  great, 

Should  he  attain. 
It  would  not— could  not  sate 

His  burning  brain ; 
For  he  would  reach  the  source  of  light. 
And  share,  enthroned,  the  Almighty's 
might! 

Thus  lost  in  thought  that's  free. 

And  manifold. 
He  ever  drifts  at  sea — 

Starless,  and  bold ; 
Yet  cannot  break  the  imperial  seal 
Of  fate,  nor  life's  dark  myth  reveal ! 


THE  BIRTH  OF  BEAUTY. 

Bt  Nature's  hand,  though  all 

Was  made  complete ; 
Stai,  in  her  Palace  HaU, 

No  twinkling  feet. 
Or  graceful  form  that's  tall. 

Or  smile  that's  sweet. 
Had  yet  obeyed  her  call  !— 

And  so  she  racked  her  brain, 
And  culled  sweet  flowers ; 

Tall  lilies  from  the  plain. 
And  from  the  bowers 

Boses,  and  from  the  main 
Cosmetic  powers ; 

From  birds,  their  sweetest  strain. 

Combining  these,  she  wrought 
A  perfect  charm ; 


And  gave  it  grace  and  thought, 
And  faith  that's  caUn ; 

When  man  the  vision  caught 
In  his  strong  arm. 

And  claimed  it — as  he  ought ! 

And  blessed  his  happy  lot, 
Which  now  made  earth 

An  Eden— every  spot — 
Since  Beauty's  birth ; 

Whose  smile  still  cheers  his  cot, 
His  home  and  hearth. 

An  angel — is  she  not  ? 


A  CONCEIT. 

Old  Father  Time,  with  nod  sublime, 

And  hammer  in  his  hand, 
Proclaims  aloud,  as  from  a  cloud. 

The  sale  of  sea  and  land. 

With  hammer  in  his  hand  I 

Ask  not  for  grace,  but  take  your  place, 

And  hear  him  cry  the  sale ; 
He  speaks  in  tones  that  shatter  thrones, 

Nor  lists  to  those  who  wail ; 

Ah,  hear  him  cry  the  sale  I 

Before  him  lies  full  many  a  prize, 

In  rich  array  displayed ; 
Yes,  all  that's  dear  to  mortals  here, 

Of  life,  its  light,  and  shade. 

In  rich  array  displayed. 

He  breaks  life's  spell,  nor  grieves  to  sell 

Fond  hopes  to  which  we  cling ; 
Honor  and  fame,  and  wealth  and  name. 

Vain  things — what  will  they  bring  ? 

Fond  hopes  to  which  we  cling  I 

He  spareth  naught,  not  e'en  a  thought. 

Though  beautiiul  and  true ; 
But  strikes  down  all,  then  flings  a  pall. 

And  screens  the  world  from  view, 

The  beautiful  and  true  I  — 


268 


HARVEY    RICE. 


[1 


Nor  does  he  wait  at  Heaven's  higli  gate, 

Nor  does  he  shed  a  tear ; 
But  breaks  the  bars  aiid  smites  the  stars, 

And  dark  grows  every  sphere ; 

Nor  does  he  shed  a  tear !  — 

But  doomed  now  dies,  *neath   blaeken'd 
skies, 

Remembered  never  more ! 
And  now,  downcast,  the  silent  Past, 

In  darkness,  hides  her  store  ; 

Remembered  never  more ! 


OUR  PILGRIM  SIRES. 

With  all  their  virtues  plain  and  stem, 
Tlie  gcKxl  old  times  have  sped ; 

And  now  the  wisdom  which  we  learn, 
Turns  giddy  every  head ; 

And  yet  *tis  wrong,  I  ween,  to  spam 
Our  old  ancestral  dead ! 

Our  Pilgrim  sires  were  taught  of  God, 
And  solemn  psalms  they  sung ; 

T\wy  tmined  their  children  with  the  rod. 
And  witch  and  wizard  hung! 

Yet,  if  they  crnnl — 'tis  nothing  odd- 
All  err — both  old  and  young ! 

TIh'V  camc<l  by  toil  whate'er  they  had. 
Since  Heaven  ordained  it  so; 

Nor  with  the  fa.*<hi<)ns  went  they  mad, 
Nor  cnimp<*d  they  waist  or  toe  ; 

Nor  like  the  lily,  |>ale  and  sad. 
Looked  every  belle  and  beau! 

Th«'  ;rirls  were  taught  to  spin  and  weave, 

'I'he  boys  to  hoki  the  plow  ; 
'TwiL*  then  thought  wijie — and  I  believe 

As  wi^e  it  nii;;ht  l>e  now. 
If  iM-opli*  would  their  M*heniing  leave. 

And  live  by  sweat  of  brow. 


The  good  old  times  were  good 
Though  times  more  poUibed  dawi; 

M(*n  then  were  made  of  sterner  itaff 
Tlmn  tha<*e  tlmt  now  are  bom ; 

Tliough  plain  they  were  and 
rough. 
Yet  why  their  ▼irtuei  acorn? 


THE  MORAL  HEMX 

With  heart  that  tmstech  idll. 

Set  high  your  mariL ; 
And  though  with  htunan  tll« 

The  warfare  may  be  dark. 
Resolve  to  conquer    and  jtm  wil ! 

Reitolve,  then  onward  pren^ 

Fearless  and  trae  ; 
Believe  it — Heaven  will  bleat 

The  brave — and  still  renew 
Your  faith  and  hope,e*en  in  diftrm! 


Press  on,  nor  stay  to  ask 

For  friendship's  aid ; 
D<Mgn  not  to  wear  the  maak. 

Nor  wield  a  coward*!  Uade, 
But  still  persist,  though  haid  Ike 


Rest  not — inglorious  rest 

Vnner\'es  the  man; 
Stnitrgle— *tis  God's  behest  I 

Fill  up  life's  little  span 
With  God-like  deed»— U  is  the 


Test  of  the  high-bora  soal, 

And  lofty  aim  ; 
The  test  in  Ilistoi^'V  scroU 

Of  ever}'  honored  name! 
None  but  the  brave  shall  win  tke  goal 

(lO  act  the  horo*s  part. 
And,  in  the  strife. 


1840-6a]                                               HARVEY    RICE.                                                      269 

Strike  with  the  hero's  heart, 

No  hiUs  or  vales,  or  vernal  birth 

For  liberty  and  life ! — 

Of  fiowers,  or  radiant  bars 

Ay,  strike  for  truth ;  preserve  her  chart ; 

Of  light  to  break  upon  the  stream, 

That  bears  us  onward,  like  a  dream, 

Her  chart,  unstained,  preserve ; 

On,  in  the  dread  Hereafter  ? 

'Twill  guide  you  right ; 

Press  on,  and  never  swerve, 

Believe — there  is  no  death  for  him. 

But  keep  your  armor  bright. 

Who  lives  on  earth  aright ; 

And  struggle  still,  with  firmer  nerve. 

He  sees  no  shadows,  dark  or  grim ; 

For  him  there  is  no  night — 

Error  must  fall  at  last. 

No  last  dull  sleep— no  feariul  knell — 

It  is  ordained; — 

No  terrors — ^when  he  goes  to  dwell. 

Old  creeds  are  crumbling  fast. 

There,  in  the  dread  Hereafter  I 

But  ere  the  victory's  gained, 

Heroes  must  strike — ^the  die  is  cast  I 

For  life  and  death  are  but  the  same- 

Phantoms  beneath  the  skies ; 

What  though  the  tempest  rage, 

And  yet  the  stars  with  radiant  ilame 

Buffet  the  sea ! 

Shall  crown  the  good  and  wise ; 

Where  duty  calls,  engage ; 

And  all  that  live,  though  wrapt  in  fire, 

And  ever  strive  to  be 

Survive  the  test,  and  bless  their  Sire, 

The  moral  Hero  of  the  Age ! 

Bless'd  in  the  dread  Hereafter ! 

EXTRACT  FROM  "MT.  VERNON.'' 

HEREAFTER. 

How  vain  the  lofty  tower. 

A  T.  A  8 !  how  fearful — silent — vast. 

Though  reared  to  heaven  by  giant  hand. 

The  dim  and  shadowy  realm. 

To  speak  his  praise,  whose  matchless  pow^ 

Where  undisputed  reigns  the  Past, 

Redeemed  his  native  land. 

And  voiceless  waves  o'erwhelm. 

And  won  him  fame  that  will  through  time 

In  dark  oblivion's  darker  tide, 

expand  I 

All  that  we  are,  with  all  our  pride. 

Lost  in  the  dread  Hereafler  I 

On  Vernon's  rugged  side. 

Where  eagles  stoop  to  build  the  nest. 

And  will  there  be  no  whisper  heard, 

There  let  the  Hero,  with  his  bride. 

No  voices,  kind  and  sweet ; 

In  hallowed  slumber  rest ; 

No  tender  heart-string,  touched  or  stirred ; 

His  fittest  monument  the  mountain's  crest. 

No  love  that  is  complete. 

To  soothe  the  grief  that  cannot  speak ; 

0,  may  the  Jjand  that's  fi^e 

No  faithful  friend,  tear-eyed  and  meek ; 

Ne'er  fall  a  prey  to  faction's  blight ; 

None  in  the  dread  Hereafter? 

But,  with  her  glorious  history, 

Still  blend  a  holier  light. 

And  will  there  be  no  more  of  earth. 

To  cheer  her  sons,  and  guide  them  in  the 

No  more  of  sky  and  stars ; 

right 

I    • 


RN'ELIUS  A.  LOGAN. 


-.    -     i.    ..   ■..*>■  ^x-  \n)m  in  the  yeiir  isuO,  in  the  citv  of  Ilallimort.    Ilr 

..  ^.  ^-1...;  -  L'<jLU-j**r,  and  wil-^  dcMiiiCMi  tor  the  priolhfKMl.  )>ut  a  rotr*! 

:u::-.*i    :.r   Ai.-utr?  ot' hi>  jiarcnts,  umi,  enl«'nn^  into  the  einpluTmrn:  { 

.     L'-r::.iii..:^  >i    iiai  cicv,  he  niude  tieverul  vovu^ivs  to  Kuru|N:  in  tb«  npftn 

■■■•     ■•< »« 

L,    -:>-«i  •!   M-.-uiiriniT,  he  turned  his<  attention  to  hterature.     For  three  jri-^ 

<-r*.      :•-     ••••■•  inK I'd   Paul  Allen  in  the  editorial  fle|)iirtinent  of  the  BMmrt 

.'  '#11 '.'•'.   II  -viiii-h  otHiV  he  leume<l  the  printinjr  hiL^ines^     He  wmwi'jtt- 

I    \:-!i   W'lliam  L«*(;^ett  in  the  pn>ject  of  establishing  a  dailr  prvav 

•     I  \.  vv  V^rk.    Tlie  enterprise  faile<l,  and  Mr.  I^igan  went  to  Phiiai^ 

•■    t.i      !!i«i  !t'  'o  the  leadin*!  pa|N'r>  of  that  plaee,  as  a  theatrical  rrrjr. 

•  ..   .-  '•  ^  i'"i  .1  t:atiinil  ta>t('  tor  the  s(ji<re, and  ^xm  after,  he  adopted Q? 

A  rVi'^*  will)  HM'olliM't  him  only  as  a  (*om«Hlian  of  the  hi^bn; 

>        ».   >.:."i'M':  :•>  l«;am  that  he  coninifnei'ii  his  career  &«  a  tragrdii& 

->.       .     ••.«•.  t  :  1  :v«  t'amily  to  Cinrinnati,  and  resided  there  until  hi^detdk 

..— ..  .-;;».'      -.^'M'.rv-irtVnd,   lXt")iX 

m 

,.    »  .*  ,    v;*>^;.  'i.  mI  olar  of  lar;:o  attainments,  and  a  fluent,  versatile  wn:-r. 
,    .     ..  .  ..X.I  .■   ■.'  •lie  <ia;r»'  a;r:Mn>t  tlie  atiaek«  which,  he  thuu{!fat,  »•■-•* 

..,.  .        ,.|    i     ••■I'l   :I-.e  pulpit,     ill' \vp»ir  a  reply  to  a  s«Tnion  hj  Lmc 

i.^«    \  •  ii-^^    ^  ^><piid  th  roil;:). I  tut  the  t-nuntrr,  as  much  fur  the  Inn- 

«.  .1-   •..  o  «i    '^  u:-.-..'uMt'  temper.     He  wmtc  many  plays.     ^Vmua^  thrc 

%  *l:  ..'.«.  ■    i   ,v"Kv.\  Ml  thn-e  art.*,  tirfl  jMrtbrmed  in  New  York  ia  I^-". 

...,,.   1.   H    riv   »i>^   Vt^i  rioan  (*t>medy  that  has  lM*en  written ;   "The  ▼■•* 

.    *  -tiiii  t  .•   4%?  r'.o«*«l  I'v,  the  late  Dan  Marhle;   ''Yankee  Lani'i 

,.;:,...     ti    k':  .^••»*:"n.  StMiih    Carolina,  in    lh:]4;   '^Remoriag  (be 

^,,     •.«,[.;••    iMit  in    riiilaih-lpliia:    ''Astartf.**  an  ailapcaikact 

^  ,     :  .  ■.  '.n;  \  .  ai-^  lli'hi-e,"  a  l>iirleH{ue  whieh  ili^plared 


•i'  -  w  "i^jJiMT   lale-s  wlii<*h  have  b«*e«nie  familiar  M 

..     ,    •  V  U'S'l'J'^'d'^  V«-n;r''an«'e,*'  a  prize  story  for  -V^*' 

^^  .«  •  ^  • '  hi"  d:n  pi)l»li-hiil  many  ept<;nuus  and  pU^r^. 

.  .   ..'  •,"  make  any  i-nllfi-tinn  itt'  lhe«r, orof  hi*  pi»— ^ 

'  .■  iMiii  !•!  it-  tir-l  piihlieatitin,  by  the  Ac/iViA^t 

.   !ii  ilie  aMi!n»r. 

^  '       «  :u».l  (  iiili.i,  ;uli»;iliil  the  jipifes^iim  in  wh-t 

V       »  *  .1*  In  r?i.  -inei-  I**  r.».  i»rie  of  the  nKi«t  p{'> 

y      ■   ^.--  \  .vK  '.••II,  Tlu'ma^  A.,  i-  a  pro«|K*roii«  atwurj 


.^  ^ 


40-^0.] 


CORNELIUS    A.    LOGAN. 


271 


THE  MISSISSIPPI* 

ERE  meet,  but  nnngle  not,  the  mighty 

waters, 
iie  glorious  Queen  of  Rivers,  in  her  sole 
ad  unparticipated  majesty 
lows  on : — Her  slimy  bed  she  scorns  to 

share 
Ith  this,  her  wooing  tributary, 
temal  Flood!   thou  owest  thy  birth  to 

regions 
Tiere  the  worn  sun  rises  fatigued  from  o'er 
be  westem'st  hiU  the  race  of  Europe  till, 
r    claim.      How  many   nations  in   thy 

course 
as  thy  broad  flow  divided  I     The  fragile 

bark 
Q  thy  sustaining  breast  in  silence  glides, 
r,  ambush    on    thy    banks,  its    warrior 

freight. 

Ast  thou  ne'er  paused  upon  thy  onward 

way, 
s  o'er  thy  moonlit  ripples  softly  swept 
he  plaintive  wail  of  love-lorn    Lidian 

maid? 
Wst  thou  ne'er  in  thy  weary  pilgrimage, 
orget  the  changeless  law  of  thy  progres- 
sion, 
nd  hold  thy  breath  to  catch  the  far 
nd  faintest  echoes  of  the  forest  fight  ? 
nd  on  hush'd  midnight  surface  vibrate 
he  tale  drank  in  by  her  who  watched  and 

prayed ; — 
hatched   for  her   husband,   through   the 

thickening  gloom — 
rayed   that  the   clinging   infant  at  her 

breast 
[ight  not  that  night  be  fatherless? 

How  oft 
pon  thy  sedgy  margin  has  the  yell 
f  savage  warfai'e  broke!     In  dark  em- 
brace 

•  Written  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ohio  Rirer. 


The  war  deck'd  combatants  in  equal  fight 
Upon  the  cliff,  have  lost  their  giddy  hold, 
And   dashing   downward  with    a   sullen 

plash. 
Found  mutual  death   in    thy   affrighted 

depths! 

When  forth  the  fiat  went  that  bade  the 

Earth 
Rejoice    in    form    and    light,  thou  didst 

begin 
Thy  everlasting  course.     Scarce  yet  the 

soil 
Had  hardened    since    Jehovah's    breath 

passed  o'er 
Its  quivering  chaos — ^yet  e'en  then  thou 

sprangest 
Upon  thy  mighty  race ;    Toung  Time  and 

Thou, 
Twin  bom,  and  forever  co-existent 
Myriads  of  generations  hath  thy  face 
In  placid  majesty  reflected.    Thou, 
Men   perchance  hast  seen,  whose  forms 

were  not  like 
Those  which  men  now  bear— of  stature 

huge 
And  of  construction  monstrous ;  fitting  foe 
To  the  Behemoth  and  the  Mastodon, 
To  survey  whose  bones  appalls  our  puny 

nerves. 

Sweep  on !  sweep  on  I  thou  Empress  of 

the  Worid ! 
Upon    thy  rolling   tide  thou  bear'st  the 

wealth 
Of  youthful  nations — richer  far  than  aU 
The   gorgeous    gems   which    sparkle    in 

Potosi. 
Thou  hast  a  gem — a  peerless  gem. 
Whose  ever-radiant  corruscations  flash  . 
A    thousand    leagues    along    thy    sunny 

banks. 
*Tis  brightest  in  the  heavenly  diadem, 
Blood-stained,  but  dimless:    Men   call  it 

Freedom ! 


CoBKELlUS  A.  I.oaA> 
WM  Hurated  nt  St.  Miir^i 

■tiipiuiiK  iiK-rduuiU  qf 

BrcvmifiK  tiri'ii  k' 

Morning  Chroiif  ! 
wnnl  i»Dni-rIi-<l  " 

I'tiin  and  nitnHna 

Tliii.  ooniimLlini  rl- 

prol-.-^-'lun  t><*  III]    . 

\xi\m\tuiiy,  will  h: 

In  lHAM  ba  reiiiiiv«l  •- 

wliii-)i  ocenTTwl  Fi 
Mr.  Logon  wu 
lie  Mas 
unjuslljr 

Bcecht-r,  wliiith  WW 
tnti   il  \\\i\AayiNi,  a. 
ll.B  -W»icrf  Bill  ! 
■lid  lironouDciai  \i.  i-- 
llrailiT,'*  a  Ik 
\e^j  Brit 

SI.«!Iry*»"l 

kn(twl(wlg<> 


Hb  iuitet,  «IW  wImihi  bo   vm  ^m^ 

,  2  ^  *  itmlMU  «t  ThuM^ltMM  I'd 

a  S«lt  CaUqp.     lU  ad«fiin]  iIm  p 

i*«.  t«i  nttiT  ili-wMrdly  punoard  il  Mt 
■■  ^  dip  Latiunllt  JumnuU,  Mi4  ai  1«M 
"V  bMMJtn-,  ili«  HnmnrfiMumM  >«^ 
B  C.  Taaj-lMi.  in  L.Hiwflfc.  Stm  IM» 
^  lAva  ur  familiuritj  wiib  ibr  b^»^ 
>  «d  am  Mt  U.  fi-IIrili.i) 


-r.'i  al  LmLiritlv,  atHl  in  1 851  m  ITaA- 

.   Vrkdufi  til  ihr  l^nitaj  Sum  Tk«M^ 

«  ««  Lit  MX.  uImmu  KTL-ntj  ;wn  c/  ^ 

A  «»  tunnml  bj'  a  kip-  »  eit^  of  fci^ 


1M 

,  "Inn  tlie  ■(ritiu  Jj^^^^ 


iamiiu|fi 
.tad  nt  '\eirj 
Jf  Hillrjr  noun, 

ihjii  fbunlain**  ui(H-(x>m'iJ  biU. 
From  the  ofiro  ,:Iik1p» 
And  Utc  furcti  Aia^e% 
rif  hauiltful  cr.-aiiire>  nuitn  Ut  Ar^. 


'm 


FOBTUNATUS   COSBY. 


278 


ifd  hard  bj  in  the  verdurous  shade, 
bniiter  forget8  his  ruthless  trade, 

The  stag  from  his  lair, 

And  the  timid  hare, 
is  his  face  and  are  not  affray'd. 

tberei  as  the  Red  man's  legends  tell, 
iden  dwelt  in  that  lonely  dell ; 
B9  the  &ce  in  a  poet's  dream, — 
as  the  purest  mountain  stream. 
When  its  waters  burst 
From  their  caverns  first — 
ope  of  dew  in  the  morning's  gleam. 

itep  as  agile,  as  light  and  free, 
otted  fown's  on  its  native  lea ; 
mile  as  bright  as  the  sunset's  glow, 
poiee  as  silvery,  sweet  and  low, 

As  the  fountain's  gush. 

Or  song  of  the  thrush, 
^^18  that  curl  the  water's  fiow. 

■noeeot  thoughts  in  her  bosom  lay, 
lids  of  gold  in  the  spring-brook  play — 
Itiie  birds  dwell  in  the  greenest  bowers, 
xiej-bees  mid  the  sweetest  fiowers ; 
And  her  dark  eyes  shone 
With  bright  dreams  alone, 
ledial  tells  only  of  radiant  hours. 

tldther  the  timorous  antelope, 
he  rock-goat  on  the  mountain's  slope — 
inmming-bird  and  the  humble-bee, 
^rds  that  sing  in  the  leafy  tree — 

The  mavis  and  merle. 

To  that  gentle  girl 
t  at  her  call,  exulting  and  free. 

ov'd  as  the  young  and  guileless  love, 
Oman  loves  or  the  gentle  dove ; 
day  by  day  more  passionate  grew, 
I  trusting  and  tender,  for  well  she  knew 

That  her  image  dwelt 

In  a  heart  that  felt 
re  as  warm  and  a  love  as  true. 


And    there,   when  the   setting  sun    had 

spread 
His  gorgeous  hues  on  the  mountain's  head, 
And  shadows  lay  on  the  golden  mist, 
Their  due  feet  came  to  that  fairy  tryst ; 

And  the  stillness  round, 

It  was  so  profound 
That  the  wild  deer  paus'd  to  look  and  list. 

"And  what  to  them  was  the  world  beside?" 
Its  wi*ath  and  wrong,  by  that  fountain's  tide  ? 
The  stars  look'd  down  from  the  distant  sky. 
And  spirits  smil'd  from  their  place  on  high — 

And  a  blessing  fell 

On  that  glassy  well. 
And  Time,  the  destroyer,  pass'd  it  by. 

That  gentle  girl  to  the  fountain  sped. 
With  shells  and  flowers  to  wreathe  her  head ; 
And  the  maiden  gaz'd  with  maiden  pride. 
Nor  dream'd  her  love  was  at  her  side, 

Till  his  shadow  lay 

In  the  water's  play. 
And  show'd  the   Chief  to   his   conscious 
bride. 

And  there,  at  the  morrow's  dawn,  they  met, 
And  they  came  again  when  the  stars  were 

set; 
And  each  to  the  other  was  all-in-all. 
And  they  linger'd  there  in  love's  sweet 
thrall, 

Till  the  joyous  sun. 

His  journey  begun, 

Wak'd  the  glad  earth  with  his  madn  calL 

And  the  next  day,  and  still  the  next,  they 

came, 

And  the  maiden  wept,  but  not  for  shame — 

And  the  gushing  tears  fell  fast  and  warm. 

For  with  the  next  moon  that  cherish'd  form. 

Too  surely  she  knows, 

On  the  war-path  goes. 

O'er  mountain  and  plain — ^in  sunshine  and 

storm. 


18 


274 


FCiRTUNATrS    COSBY. 


[IftM-S 


And  thitluT,  for  mnny  a  woarj  day, 
The  di'solate  maid  wa8  wont  to  straj^ 
To  ttoo,  ore  the  fduulows  fade  and  melty 
If  mirrored  there  his  iina<];e  dwelt — 
But  the  limpid  wave 
No  bri^^ht  image  gave, 
But  hers  who  beside  it8  margin  knelt. 

Another,  and  yet  another  t^un. 
His  weary  course  has  wearily  run — 
And  he  comes  not  with  its  golden  set — 
The  brave  and  the  true,ciui  he  forget? 

She  flits  there  alone 

On  that  mo^sy  stone, 
And  looks  and  prays  for  his  coming  yet! 

At  mom,  at  noon,  and  at  eventide. 
She  sits  and  weeps  by  tliat  fountain's  side ; 
And  she  thinks  an<l  dreams  of  him  alone, 
The  loving  and  lov'd  who  was  all  her  own ! 

But  tlie  sun  that  told 

Happy  hours  of  old, 
Shall  shine  never  more  as  once  it  shone. 

Ah !  never  again  shall  she  behold, 
And  never  again  shall  >he  infold 
That  cherished  form — and  never  again 
Sliall  his  presence  light  her  darken'd  brain! 
And  love  never  more 
Sliall  bind  and  n*store 
The  broken  links  of  that  broken  chain. 


TO  THE  MOC'KINGIHRD. 

Bird  of  the  wild  and  wondrous  song, 

I  h«'ar  thv  rit'h  an«l  varied  voice 
Swrlling  the  gn*enwo<Ml  depths  among. 

Till  hill  and  vale  the  \vliili»  wjnice. 
Spi'll-lNMind,  eiitniii('«MK  in  i':i[)ture*s  chain, 
I  liM  to  that  inspiring  >train ; 
I  ilip'inl  ilii*  fnn-stV  tanL!l«'d  maze 

Til'"  tliuii-aiid  rliori-'trr.''  to  M*e, 
Wliu,  niiiigli'd  tlius,  tli«'ir  vuirfs  raise 

I]i  that  liflii'inus  inin<*tn'Ny ; 


I  search  in  vain  each  pftiue  bef 
The  choral  band  is  Btill 


'Tis  but  the  music  of  a  drewBv 

An  airy  sound  that  mocks  the  cv; 
But  hark  again !  the  ea|^'a 

It  rose  and  fell,  distinct  and 
And  list !  in  yonder  hawthorn  bothv 
The  n*d-bird,  robin,  and  the  thrath! 
Ix>st  in  amaze  I  look  aroand. 

Nor  thrush  nor  eagle  there  b^oU! 
But  still  that  rich  aerial  sound. 

Like  some  forgotten  song  of  old 
That  o*er  the  heart  has  held  cootral^ 
Falls  sweetly  on  the  ravished  loaL 

And  yet  the  woods  are  vocal  iCilli 

Tiie  air  is  magical  with  song; 
OVr  the  near  streanu  above  the  bill, 

The  wildering  notea  are  home  along; 
But  whence  that  gush  of  rare  deBght? 
And  what  art  thou,  or  bird,  or  sprite?— 
Pen'hed  on  yon  maple's  topmost  booul, 

With  glancing  wings  and  resllesi  feed 
Bird  of  untiring  throat,  art  thoa 

Sole  songster  in  this  eooeert  sweet! 
So  perfect,  full,  and  rich,  each  pait, 
It  mocks  the  highest  reach  of 


Once    more,    once    more,    that 
strain ! — 

Ill-omened  owl,  be  mate,  be  molei— 
Thy  native  tones  I  hear  again. 

More  sw(^t  tlmn  harp  or  lovcr^i  htt; 
Compared  with  thy  impassioned  tskb 
How  iHild,  how  tame  the  nightingdb 
Alas !  capricifius  in  thy  power, 

Thy  -  wiKKl-nute  wild"  again  is  M: 
The  niiinic  niles  the  changefol  boor. 

And  all  the  soul  of  song  is 'dead! 
Hut  ni>— to  everv  borrowed  fooe 
He  h'uds  a  swet*tness  all  bis  own! 


On  <:Iiit«rin?  whig,  erect  and  bright 
With  arniwy  N|ieeil  he  darts  aklL 

A«  thon;;h  hi<  s<m]  had  ta*en  its  flifb^ 
In  that  last  strain,  so  snd 


FORTUNATUS   COSBY. 


275 


would  call  it  back  to  life, 
le  in  the  mimic  strife ! 
r,  to  each  fitful  lay, 
ame  in  restless  motion  wheels, 
^h  he  would  indeed  essay 
t  the  ecstacy  he  feels — 
jh  his  very  feet  kept  time 
inimitable  chime  I 

r,  as  the  rising  moon 

>s  with  full  orb  the  trees  above, 

)  his  most  enchanting  tune, 

;  echo  wakes  through  all  the  grove ; 

'ant  soothes,  in  care's  despite, 

iry  watches  of  the  night ; 

iper  from  his  couch  starts  up, 

ten  to  that  lay  forlorn ; 

who  quaffs  the  midnight  cup 

I  out  to  see  the  purple  mom ! 

•  in  the  merry  Spring, 

dmic,  let  me  hear  thee  sing. 


SONG. 

around  and  all  above  thee, 
the  hush'd  and  charmed  air, 
tings  woo  thee,  all  things  love  thee, 

Maiden  fair! 
est  zephyrs,  perfume  breathing, 
ifl  to  thee  their  tribute  sweet, 
for  thee  the  Spring  is  weaving 

Garlands  meet 
iir  cavem'd,  cool  recesses, 
igs  for  thee  the  fountains  frame ; 
soe'er  the  wave  caresses 

Lisps  thy  name. 

ler  verdure,  brighter  blossom, 
leresoe'er  thy  footsteps  stray, 
iie  earth's  enamored  bosom 
Live  alway. 


Wheresoever  thy  presence  lingers, 

Wheresoe'er  its  brightness  beamsy 
Fancy  weaves,  with  cunning  fingers, 

Sweetest  dreams. 
And  the  heart  forgets  thee  never. 

Thy  young  beauty  'sone  delight| 
There  it  dwells,  and  dwells  forever, 
Ever  bright. 


FIRESIDE  FANCIES. 

Bt  the  dim  and  fitful  fire-light 

Musing  all  alone. 
Memories  of  old  companions 

Dead,  or  strangers  grown ; — 
Books  that  we  had  read  together. 
Rambles  in  sweet  summer  weather. 
Thoughts  released  from  earthly  tether- 
Fancy  made  my  own. 

In  my  cushioned  arm-chair  sitting 

Far  into  the  night. 
Sleep,  with  leaden  wing  extinguished 

All  the  flickering  light ; 
But,  the  thoughts  that  soothed  me  waking. 
Care,  and  grief,  and  pain  forsaking. 
Still  the  self-same  path  were  taking- 
Pilgrims,  still  in  sight 

Indistinct  and  shadowy  phantoms 

Of  the  sacred  dead. 
Absent  faces  bending  fondly 

O'er  my  drooping  head. 
In  my  dreams  were  woven  quaintly, 
Dim  at  first,  but  calm  and  saintly. 
As  the  stars  that  glimmer  faintly 

From  their  misty  bed. 

Presently  a  lustrous  brightness 

Eye  could  scarce  behold, 
Gave  to  my  enchanted  vision. 

Looks  no  longer  cold, 


27G 


FOIiTUNATUS   COSBY. 


[IM-S 


Ffaturcs  that  no  cloud:»  encumber, 
Furnis  refreshed  by  8W(M*te>t  slumber, 
Ami,  of  all  that  blessed  number, 
Only  one  wa.s  old. 

Gnireful  were  they  as  the  willow 

By  the  zephyr  stirred  I 
Bright  as  childhood  when  ex(>ccting 

An  approving  word ! 
Fair  as  when  from  earth  they  failed. 
Ere  the  burnished  brow  was  shaded, 
Or,  the  hair  with  silver  bniided, 

Or  lament  was  heard. 

lioundabout  in  silence  moving 

Slowly  to  and  fn>— 
Lif«'-like  as  1  knew  and  loved  them 

In  their  spring-time  glow ; — 
laming  with  a  loving  luster, 
Clo>e  and  closer  still  thi*y  cluster 
Round  my  chair  that  nuliant  muster. 

Just  as  long  ago. 

Once,  the  aged,  breathing  comfort 

0*er  my  fainting  cheek, 
Whispered  word:)  of  precious  meaning 

Only  she  could  s|K*ak, 
Si'an»e  <*ould  I  my  rapture  smother. 
For  I  knew  it  wfc*  my  mother. 
And  to  me  there  was  no  other 

Saint-like  and  so  meek ! 

Tiien  the  p4»nt-up  fount  of  f« 'cling 

Stirn-d  its  uimo>t  deei>— 
Briinming  o'er  its  fn»zcn  surface 

From  its  guanhnl  keep, 
( >n  Hiy  heart  its  dn»ps  deset*nding. 
And  tor  one  glad  moni«'nt  lending 
I>reams  of  Joy*s  ecstatit*  blmding, 

BlesM'd  my  clianned  sh'r|). 

I'nL'ht  and  brig1it«T  gn'W  the  vi-ion 

With  «'ach  pitlH'riiijr  trar. 
Till  I  hi*  pii*i  wiL<  all  In-fore  me 

In  it^  nidianc*!'  clear; 


And  again  we  read  at 
lIoi)ed,  beneath  the  Miminer  hearcBi 
Hopes  tliat  luid  no  bitter  leaTCOi 
No  disturbing  femr. 

All  so  real  seemed  each  prcflenet^ 
That  one  word  I  spoke-^ 

Only  one  of  old  enileameiiti 
That  dead  sil«fni*e  broke. 

But  the  angels  who  were  keeping 

Stillest  waU*h  while  I  wag  «leepiD^ 

Led  me  o'er  the  embers 
Fled  when  I  awoke. 


But,  as  ivy  clings  the 

On  abandoned  walb ; 
And  as  echo  lingers  sweetest 

In  deserted  halls: — 

Thus,  the  sunlight  that  we 

From  the  past  to  gild  our 

On  the  dark  and  dreaded 

Like  a  blessing  falls. 


MY  FIRST  LOVE. 

Tis  twenty  years ! — ^yet,  twenty 

Have  fled  into  the  past! 
Oh.  twenty  long  and  weary  ycai^ 

Sinc*e  I  U'held  thee  last ! 
They  say  that  time  has  bnisli'd  a*ij 

The  brightncs8  from  thj 
And,  tluit  thy  light  and  ringiBg 

Is  more  subdued  and  me^  i 


Tis  twenty  years, — ^yw,  tweatj  — ^' 

But  thv  Ix'kived  face 
l<  niirninMl  in  my  roemoty  jt^ 

In  :ill  it'^  girliiih  grace ; 
And  thim  art  still  the  same  to 

ThiM«*  eye  as  brightly  Uae^^ 
Tiiy  chtM*k  a<«  warm,  thy  lip  as  nk 

Thy  heart  as  kind  and  tratl 


JAMES  B.  WALKER. 


James  Babr  Walker  is  a  native  of  Philadelphia.  He  was  bom  on  the  twenty- 
ninth  day  of  July,  1805.  His  father  was  a  machinist  James  B.  came  to  the  West 
when  a  young  man.  He  began  life  as  a  printer ;  read  law,  then  spent  four  years  in 
study  at  Western  Reserve  College,  Hudson,  Ohio,  and  after  several  years  of  success- 
ful mercantile  business,  entered  the  Christian  ministry,  in  which  he  now  labors.  He 
was  pastor  of  the  Congregational  Church  in  Mansfield,  Richland  county,  Ohio,  for 
many  years,  and  lately  preached  to  a  congregation  in  Sandusky  City.  He  is  now  a 
lecturer  in  the  Theological  Seminaries  of  Oberlin,  Ohio,  and  Chicago,  Illinois. 

Mr.  Walker  has  published  but  little  poetry,  but  a  volume  of  poems  from  his  pen 
is  to  be  issued  in  England  the  present  year.  He  is  better  known  as  the  author  of 
philosophical  works,  treating  of  nature  and  revealed  religion,  than  as  a  poet  **  The 
Philosophy  of  the  Plan  of  Salvation,"  a  little  book  originally  published  in  Cincinnati,* 
but  which  has  passed  through  many  editions  in  England,  and  has  been  translated  into 
nearly  all  the  languages  of  the  continent  of  Europe  in  which  the  Christian  religion 
is  taught,  may  be  recorded  as  one  of  the  most  successful  of  American  publications. 

Another  work  by  Mr.  Walker,  "God  Revealed  in  Creation  and  in  Christ,"  first 
published  in  London,  in  1857,  and  republished  in  Boston,  has  been  widely  circulated. 
In  addition  to  other  literary  labors,  Mr.  Walker  has  conducted  in  the  West  four  news- 
papers—one political,  one  temperance,  and  two  religious.  The  volume  which  he  is 
DOW  prepaiing  for  the  press  will  contain  'two  poems  of  considerable  length,  widely 
differing  in  subject  and  treatment— one  "On  the  Lnmortality  of  the  Sodl," — ^the  other, 
**Ten  Scenes  in  the  Life  of  a  Lady  of  Fashion." 


THE  INWARD  LIFR 

Thebe  is  a  joy,  all  joys  above 
An  inward  life  of  peace  and  love 

The  contrite  only  feel ; 
It  is  the  power  that  makes  us  whol 
A  saving  unction  in  the  soul — 

It  is  the  spirit's  seaL 

There  is  a  ray  of  holy  light — 
A  radiance  from  the  ever-bright 


And  ever-perfect  One ; 
It  is  the  day-spring  in  the  heart, 
That  lives  and  glows  in  every  part — 

It  is  the  spirit's  sun. 

There  is  an  energy  supplied 
By  faith  in  Christ  the  crucified, 

Through  all  the  being  rife. 
It  is  the  power  of  saving  grace, 
That  holds  the  soul  in  its  embrace — 

It  is  the  spirit's  Hfe. 


*  Philosophy  of  Uie  Plan  of  SalratioQ— «  Book  for  the  Times ;  by  aa  American  dtlaen.    Publiihed  for  the  author. 
Cfnciniiati,  1S41.    12mo,  pp.  289.    Dedicated  to  William  BUery  Channing. 

(277  ) 


278 


JAMKS    B.   WALKER. 


[IW 


APOSTROPHE  TO  EGYPT. 

Egypt,  thou  wonder  of  the  primal  age. 

In  the  Nilotic  valley  lon^  iiffy^ 

The   priest  of  Amnion — the    Memphitic 

sage, 
Inscribed  the  preface  to   what  man  may 

know, 
Upon  thy  granite  ob('li>ks — in  tombs 
Where  mummied  relics  of  thy  great  onei» 

lie- 
in  the  stupendous  pyramids,  whose  rooms 
Abysmal— cavernous — may  time  defy. 

Whence  were  thy  people,  Egypt  ?  Whence 

the  might 
And  wealth  of  Menes,  the  first  Theban 

king? 
Who  taught  thy  sacerdotal  class  to  write 
In  hyeroglyphics  ?     Did  their  knowledge 

spring 
From  ancient  Meroc  ?    Was  the  light  tliat 

shone 
Upon  thine  orient  in  the  mom  of  time 
Kindled    by    Hermes? — or    a    radiance 

thrown 
Into  thy  valley  from  some  western  clime  ? 

Who  shall  resolve  the  riddle  ? — who  col- 

hite 
Thy  fables,  and  translate  them  into  truth  ? 
Who  p!a<*e  thy  unphiced  kings,  or  give  the 

date 
Of  tha<e  who  reigned  when  Saturn  was  a 

youth  ? 

Tlrnt  thou  in  age   wa^^t  hoary,  the   long 
range 


Hut  God  unknown — the  haman  mind 

blind* 
^Vnd  reason  sinks  by  her  attempts  to  hm 

God  is  unknown  to  reasoo.     Te  mi§ 

gaze 
( )n  Phre,  the  sun-god,  till  the  eye  vonU  I 
Confused  and  cloudy : — bat  af  tlnuagh 

haze 
Or  darken'd  glass,  his  texture  «c  ■ 

see. 
So,  God  of  hosts,  the  soul  may  gue  c 

Thee:— 
Jesus  revealed,  yet  vailed  the  Dnty. 


Of  tiMiiples — tomb» — Mircophagi,  declare, 
And  thy  vast  i«U{>ers(itioiis,  vile  and  strange, 
Proclaim  idolatry  grown  dotard  there. 

Iinpre-isive  h's^on !     Tim«'  devchips  mind, 
And  nations  by  tlic   la])sc  of  years  grow 
wise, 


THE  ANGEL  WHISPER. 

Sometimes  in  the  pause  of  Inmj  tk, 

When  my  mind  is  very  still, 
There  looks  on  me  in  mem*ij*<  gbo^ 

Witliout  the  call  of  will, 
A  kind,  young  face  from  the  land  of  jbM) 

And  when  8he  comes  I  sigh. 
And  my  mind  is  held  as  with  a  speD 

Of  an  un»een  spirit  nigh. 

Jjon^,  long  a^  in  boyltood  tioM^ 

Slie  was  my  earliest  love. 
Hut  ere  the  tiush  of  maiden 

She  joined  the  choir  above: 
Her  presrno!  frives  a  sign  of 

All  selHah  tliought  is  gone ; 
I  hear  her  silent  words  awhik^ 

And  tlien  I  am  alone. 

In  the  spirit  land,  hereafter, 

1  >hall  meet  an  angel  friend, 
Whose  pn*sen(H*  I  shall  know  bj  Ao^^ 

That  with  my  spirit  blend ; 
She  will  tell  me  in  life*s  pilgria^gi 

She  ot^entimeii  was  nigh. 
And  liMiked  on  me  from  memotj^a  g|Ni^ 

Till  1  answer'd  with  a  ai^ 


SOPHIA   HELEN  OLIVER. 


Sophia  Helen  Oliver  was  bom  in  the  year  1811,  at  Lexington,  Kentucky.  In 
1837  she  was  married  to  Joseph  H.  Oliver,  a  physician  who  is  well  known  in  south- 
ern Ohio.  He  was  for  six  or  eight  years  a  leading  Professor  in  the  Eclectic  Medical 
College  at  Cincinnati.  Mrs.  Oliver  was  a  contributor  to  several  of  the  early  literary 
newspapers  of  Kentucky  and  Ohio.  She  wrote  some  of  her  best  poems  for  the  Cincin- 
nati Daily  Message,  in  1841.  The  latest  poems  from  her  pen  which  we  have  seen, 
were  contributed  to  the  Columbian  and  Great  West,  in  the  years  1850  and  1851. 


SHADOWS. 

Thet  are  gliding,  they  are  gliding. 

O'er  the  meadows  green  and  gay ; 
Like  a  fairy  troop  they're  riding 

Through  the  breezy  woods  away ; 
On  the  mountain-tops  they  linger 

When  the  sun  is  sinking  low. 
And  they  point  with  giant  finger 

To  the  sleeping  vale  below. 

They  are  flitting,  they  are  flitting, 

O'er  the  waving  corn  and  rye. 
And  now  they're  calmly  sitting 

Neath  the  oak-tree's  branches  high. 
And  where  the  tired  reaper 

llath  sought  the  sheltering  tree, 
They  dance  above  the  sleeper 

In  light,  fantastic  glee. 

They  are  creeping,  they  are  creeping, 

Over  valley,  hill,  and  stream. 
Like  the  thousand  fancies  sweeping 

Through  a  youthful  poet's  dream. 
Now  they  mount  on  noiseless  pinions 

With  the  eagle  to  the  sky — 
Soar  along  those  broad  dominions 

Where  the  stars  in  beauty  lie. 


They  are  dancing,  they  are  dancing, 

Where  our  country's  banner  bright 
In  the  morning  beam  is  glancing. 

With  its  stars  and  stripes  of  light; 
And  where  the  glorious  prairies 

Spread  out  like  garden  bowers, 
They  fly  along  hke  fairies, 

Or  sleep  beneath  the  flowers. 

They  are  leaping,  they  are  leaping, 

Where  a  cloud  beneath  the  moon 
O'er  the  lake's  sofl  breast  is  sleeping, 

Lulled  by  a  pleasant  tune ; 
And  where  the  fire  is  glancing 

At  twilight  through  the  hall, 
Tall  specter  furms  are  dancing 

Upon  the  lofty  wall. 

They  are  lying,  they  are  lying, 

Wliere  the  solemn  yew-tree  waves, 
And  the  evening  winds  are  sighing 

In  the  lonely  place  of  graves ; 
And  their  noiseless  feet  are  creeping, 

With  slow  and  stealthy  tread, 
Where  the  ancient  church  is  keeping 

Its  watch  above  the  dead. 


Lo,  they  follow ! — ^lo,  they  follow  I 
Or  before  flit  to  and  fro 


(  279  ) 


280 


SOPHIA   UELEN   OLIVER. 


[IMt-JI 


By  mountain,  stream,  or  hollow, 

Wherever  man  may  go  I 
And  never  for  another 

Will  the  sliadow  leave  his  side — 
More  faithful  than  a  brother, 

Or  all  the  world  bei&ide* 

Ye  remind  me,  yc  rc*mind  me, 

0  Shadows,  pale  and  cold ! 
That  friends  to  earth  did  bind  me. 

Now  sleeping  in  the  mould ; 
The  young,  the  loved,  the  cherished, 

Whose  mission  early  done, 
In  life's  bright  noontide  perished, 

Like  shadows  in  the  sun. 

The  departeil,  the  departetl — 

1  greet  them  with  my  tears — 
The  true  and  gentle-hearted, 

The  friends  of  earlier  years. 
Their  wings  like  slmdows  o*er  me, 

Blethinks,  are  spn*nd  for  aye, 
Around,  behind,  bc^tbre  me. 

To  guard  the  devious  way. 


MARK  THE  HOURS  THAT  SHINE. 

In  fair  Italia*s  lovely  land, 

Deep  in  a  garden  bower, 
A  dial  marks  with  shadowy  hand 

Each  sun-illumined  hour; 
Antl  on  its  fair,  unsuHie<!  face, 

!««  car\*ed  this  flowing  line 
(S>in<*  wandering  InipI  has  paused  to  trace) 

*'  I  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 

Oil,  ye  who  in  a  friend's  fair  face 

Mark  the  defecU«  alune, 
Wh«*n»  many  a  sweet,  redeeming  grace 

Doth  fur  each  fault  atonic — 
(to,  Irtiin  the  sjM'akin;;  cliul  learn 
I         A  lesson  all  divinr  ; 


I     Fn>m  faults  that  wound  your  fancy  turn, 
!         And  *'  mark  the  Iiours  that  shine.** 


When  bending  o'er  the  glovng  pa|e, 

Traced  by  a  god-like  mind. 
Whose  buruing  thonghu  from  a^  k 
age 

SluiU  light  and  bleM  mankind 
Why  will  ye  i^eek  mid  gleamiag  pU 

For  drods  in  every  linei 
Dark  spots  upon  the  6un  behold, 

Nor  **  miirk  the  hours  thai  akine.* 

Oh,  ye  who  bask  in  fortune**  Ij^ 

Whose  cups  are  flowing  o'er, 
Yet  through  the  weary  day  and  n^ 

Still  pine  and  sigh  for  more 
Why  will  ye,  when  so  richly  blei^ 

Ungratefully  repine? 
Why  sigh  for  joys  still  nnpossessed, 

Nor  ''mark  the  hours  that  shine?* 


And  ye  who  toil  from  mora  till  a$gM 

To  earn  your  scanty  breadp 
Are  there  no  blessings  rich  wad  hn^ 

Around  your  pathway  spread? 
The  conscience  clear,  the  chcciful 

The  trust  in  love  divine^ 
All  bid  desponding  care  depart 

And  *^  mark  the  hours  that 


And  ye  who  bend  o^er  ftiendship^s 

In  deep  and  Toioeless  woe» 
WIk)  sadly  feel  no  second 

Your  blighted  hearts 
Why  will  ye  mourn  o'er  aerend  tio^ 

While  friends  around  joq  twine? 
Go  !  yield  your  k»t  one  to  the 

And  '*  mark  the  hours  that 


Deep  in  the  garden  of  each  heart 

There  stamls  a  dial  fiur| 
And  oAen  is  its  snowj  diart 

Dark  with  the  clouds  of 
Th«*n  pn  and  ev<*ry  shadow 

That  flims  its  light  dinne, 
Ami  write  upon  its  gleaming 

^  I  mark  the  hours  thai 


MARGARET  L.  BAILEY. 


Margaret  L.  Bailet,  a  daughter  of  Thomas  Shands,  was  bom  in  Sussex  county, 
Vu^inia,  on  the  twelfth  day  of  December,  1812.  When  she  was  about  six  years  of  age 
her  father  removed  to  Ohio,  and  settled  in  the  vicinity  of  Cincinnati.  In  1833  Miss 
Shands  married  Gamaliel  Bailey,  then  a  physician  in  Cincinnati,  who,  in  1837,  be- 
came the  editor  and  proprietor  of  The  Philanthropist^  the  well-known  anti-slavery 
journal,  which  was  merged  into  The  Cincinnati  Morning  Herald,  in  the  year  1843. 

In  1844,  Mrs.  Bailey  undertook  the  editorial  management  of  The  Touth*s  Monthly 
Vmiarj  a  handsome  quarto  paper  for  little  folks,  which  rapidly  grew  into  favor  and 
attained  a  large  circulation.  When,  in  1847,  Mr.  Bailey  removed  from  Cincinnati  to 
Washington  City,  for  the  purpose  of  editing  The  National  Era,  Mrs.  Bailey  trans- 
ferred the  publication  of  the  Visitor  to  that  city,  and  continued  it  until  1852.  She 
made  it  a  welcome  Visitor  to  thousands  of  households,  the  good  wishes  of  which 
might  well  be  coveted  by  any  editor  or  author. 

After  Mr.  Bailey's  decease,  in  1859,  l^Irs.  Bailey  was  the  publisher  of  the  National 
Era  until  the  time  of  its  suspension,  February,  1860.  She  now  resides  in  Washing- 
ton City.  Between  the  care  of  an  interesting  family,  and  attentions  to  a  circle  of 
literary  friends,  by  whom  she  is  regarded  with  loving  honor,  her  time  has  been  so 
entirely  occupied  that  she  has  not  exercised  her  poetic  faculties,  unless  in  secret,  for 
eight  or  ten  years.  Indeed,  she  does  not  take  pride  in  the  poems  of  her  early  years, 
and  would  probably  question  the  poetic  taste  of  any  one  who  might  indorse  the 
saying  of  Rufus  W.  Griswold,  that  "  they  are  informed  with  fismcy,  and  a  just  under- 
standing." 


DUTY  AND  REWARD. 

Labor — wait!  thy  Master  perished 

Ere  his  task  was  done ; 
Count  not  lost  thy  fleeting  moments, 

Life  hath  but  begun. 

Labor !  and  the  seed  thou  sowest 

Water  with  thy  tears ; 
God  is  faithful — he  will  give  thee 

Answer  to  thy  prayers. 

Wait  in  hope !  though  yet  no  verdure 
Glad  l^ie  longing  eyes, 


Thou  shalt  see  the  ripened  harvest 
Garnered  in  the  skies. 

Labor  —  wait!  though  midnight  shad" 
ows 

Gather  round  thee  here, 
And  the  storms  above  thee  lowering 

Fill  thy  heart  with  fear — 

Wait  in  hope ;  the  morning  dawneth 

When  the  night  is  gone. 
And  a  peaceful  rest  awaits  thee 

When  thy  work  is  done. 


(281) 


2H2 


MARGARKT    L.   BAILEY. 


[INM 


THE  PAUPER  CHILD'S  BURIAL. 

Stkktciifd  on  a  rude  plank  the  dead 

pan)M*r  lay ; 
No  wo«»ping  friends  gatheriMl  to  liear  him 

away ; 
His  whit4*,  nlondiT  fingers  were  clai*ped  on 

Ills  bnML'vt, 
Tlie  |>au]K*r  child  meekly  lay  taking  hiB 

rest 

The  hair  on  his  forehead  was  carele>sly 
}mr1(Ml ; 


And  when  the  last  pang  rent  thy  hi«r 

strings  in  twain, 
And  burst  from  tlij  boton  the  kit  BgB« 

pain, 
No  gentle  one  Roothed  tbee,  in  lore'i  mA 

ing  tone. 
With  fond  arm  aroand  thee  in 

thrown. 


Stem  voices  and  cold  mingled 

thine  ear. 
With  the  songs  of  the  angels  the  dn^ 

may  hear; 
And  t hri llingly  tender,  amid  death's  akrw 
No  one  rtiRKl  for  him,  th«»  desolate-hearted ;  ^y^  ^]^y  mother's  voice  welooming  thw  i 

her  arms. 

Tliy  fragile  form,  wrapped  in  ill  com 

shroud,  refNises 
In  plumlN*re  as  sweet  as  if  piDoved  a 

roses; 
And  wliile  on  thy  coffin  tlie  iiide  cloditf 

]>r«»ss*d. 
The  gcNMl  Shepherd  folds  the  shonlid 

to  his  breast. 


In  lif*e  none  had  lovt^d  him — his  ]Mithway, 

all  >ear, 
Had  not  one  sweet  blossom  its  sadness  to 

cheer. 

No  fond,  gentle  mother  had  ever  caressed 

him. 
In  tones  of  affection  and  tenderness  blessed 

him; 
For  ere  his  eye  greeted  the  light  of  the  i 

«hiy. 
His   mother  had  passed   in  her  anguish 

aw^av. 


WntT  \\u\o  one!  oAen  thv  meek  eves  have 


sniivrlit 
Tli«'   "iiiiile  «)f   affi'ction,  of  kindness  un-' 

b<Mii:lit,  I 

Ami  wistfully  gaxing,  in  wondering  sur- 

pri"*!'. 
That  no  one  Im'Ih'M  thi'e  with  j/itying  eyes. 

And  wIkmi  in  strange  gladness  thy  young 

voin*  was  lii'anl, 
A>  in  winters  >lem  sailne-s  llie  song  of  a 

hipj. 
liar  h  \nir«s  rebuked  tine,  and,  cowering 

ill  t'«:«r, 
Tli\  L'I:<*i  ^oHif  was  liu^livd  in  a  sob  and  a 

ti-ar. 


MEM0RIG3. 


Oh  !  plea.->nnt  are  the 

(H*  childlKMNlV  forest  home, 
And  of),  amid  the  toils  of  li 

Like  bh'ssed  dreams  the/ 


Of  sunset  hours  when  I  laj 
Mid  shathiws  cool  and  fRcn, 

Wnii'hing  the  winge<I  insecCi 
In  summer's  golden  sheen. 

ThfMr  dniw^y  hum  was  a  hilUj 
To  natun**s  quiet  sleeping* 

Whih*  fMT  th<*  meadow's  dewy 
The  t*v«-niiig  winds  were 


(40-60.] 


MARGARET    L.    BAILEY. 


283 


The  plowman's  whistle  heard  afar, 
To  his  humble  home  returning ; 

And  faintly  in  the  gathering  shade 
The  fire-fly's  lamp  was  burning. 

Up  in  the  old  oak's  pleasant  shade, 
Where  mossy  branches  swing, 

With  gentle  twitterings  soft  and  low, 
Nestling  with  fluttering  wing — 

Were  summer  birds>  their  tender  notes 
Like  love's  own  fond  caressing, 

When  a  mother  folds  her  little  flock. 
With  a  whispered  prayer  and  blessing. 

The  cricket  chirps  from  the  hollow  tree, 

To  the  music  of  the  rill, 
And  plaintively  echoes  through  the  wood 

The  song  of  the  whippowiL 

Tinged  with  the  last  faint  light  of  day, 

A  white  cloud  in  the  west 
Floats  in  the  azure  sea  above, 

Like  a  ship  on  ocean's  breast. 

The  evening  star  as  a  beacon  shines. 

On  the  far  horizon's  verge ; 
And  the  wind  moans  through  the  distant 
pines, 

Like  the  troubled  ocean's  surge. 

From  lowly  vales  the  rising  mist 
Curls  up  the  hill-side  green, 

And  its  summit,  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky. 
Like  a  fairy  isle  is  seen. 

Away  in  the  depths  of  ether  shine 
The  stars  serenely  bright — 

G^ms  in  the  glorious  diadem. 
Circling  the  brow  of  night. 

Our  Father !  if  thy  meaner  works 

Thus  beautiful  appear — 
If  such  reveal! ngs  of  thy  love 

Enkindle  rapture  here — 


If  to  our  mortal  sense  thou  dost 

Thy  treasures  thus  unfold ; 
When  death  shall  rend  this  earthly  vail, 

How  shall  our  eyes  behold 

Thy  glory,  when  the  spirit  soars 

Beyond  the  starry  zone. 
And  in  Thy  presence  folds  her  wing. 

And  bows  before  Thy  throne  I 


ENDURANCK 

When,  upon  wings  of  rainbow  hues, 

Hope  flits  across  thy  pathway  here, 
And  gently  as  the  morning  breeze. 

Her  waving  pinion  dries  thy  tear, 
Oh,  yield  not  all  thy  soul  to  joy. 

Let  not  her  blandishments  allure : 
Life's  greenest  spot  hath  withered  flowers — 

Whate'er  thy  lot,  thou  must  endure. 

If,  on  the  mountain's  topmost  cliff, 

The  flag  of  victory  seems  unfurled. 
And  Faith,  exulting,  sees  afar 

Earth's  idol,  Error,  downward  hurled. 
Deem  not  the  triumph  thou  shalt  share — 

God  keeps  his  chosen  vessels  pure ; 
The  final  reckoning  is  on  high ; 

On  earth  thy  meed  is,  to  endure. 

With  chastened  heart,  in  humble  faith. 

Thy  labor  earnestly  pursue, 
As  one  who  fears  to  such  frail  deeds 

No  recompense  is  due. 
Wax  not  faint-hearted ;  while  thou  toil'st, 

Thy  bread  and  water  shall  be  sure ; 
Leaving  all  else  to  God,  be  thou 

Patient  in  all  things  to  endure. 


WILLIAM  DANA  EMERSON. 


William  Dana  Emerson  is  one  of  the  Weatera  poets  who  lmT« 
and  liappily  on  themes  suirgested  by  local  scenery  or  local  histoiy.  He  waa  bom  k  te 
pioneer  town,  Marietta,  Ohio,  on  the  ninth  day  of  July,  1813.  His  father  was  a  kv« 
yer  and  an  editor.  Wrlliam  was  educated  at  Ohio  University,  where  he 
with  distinction  in  1836.  In  one  of  his  poems,  written  in  1838,  grateful 
Athens  and  pleasant  recollections  of  college  life,  are  recorded.     We  quote  two 

Sweet  Atheiu !  the  home  of  learning  and  beonty. 

How  I  long  for  thj  bllU*  and  thy  rich  balmy  air ; 
For  thj  wide-ffpreading  grcenft,  Mnillng  sweetly  oo  daty. 

And  the  vallej  beneath,  and  the  stream  wending  there  I 
Oo  the  North  the  high  rock,  on  the  South  the  lone  ferry  ; 

The  TiUe  on  the  Eant,  and  the  mill  on  the  West, 
The  lawn  where  the  gravest  at  play-hoars  were  BMrry, 

And  the  walks  by  the  footfltep  of  beauty  made  blcfli*d : 

The  old  college  building — where  En6eld  and  Stewart 

Oft  found  me  enwonced  In  the  cupola  cool ; 
While  I  glanced  now  and  then,  mid  the  8tudy  of  true  art, 

At  the  names  graven  there  bj  the  pocket  edge-tool ; 
Oh,  time  hai*  diminlfihed  the  strength  of  mj  spirit, 

The  vinions  of  youth  are  my  glories  no  more ; 
But  still  one  eHtate  from  thee  I  inherit. 

The  old  right  of  way  to  the  Stan  and  their  lore: 

AAer  leaving  college  Mr.  Emerson  taught  school  in  Kentucky  and  in 
tSchool-keeping  in  Illinois  in  1839  was  well  calculated  to  make  a  yooQg  ■ 
oughly  acquainted  with  the  necessary  peculiarities  of  pioneer  lift 
in  Miveral  of  his  poems  Mr.  Emerson  graphically  describes. 

1^'tuming  to  Ohio,  Mr.  Emerson  studied  law,  and  has,  for  ten  or  fifteen 
an  oiFice  in  Cincinnati.     But  he  is  not  much  known  at  the  bar.     His  **t«p«*i»fa»  ii » 
tiring.     He  shuns  society,  and  avoids  the  haunts  where  men  **most  do 
except  when  he  has  occasion  to  visit  a  public  lilmiry,  and  then,  though  tbe 
may  l<*am  his  name,  he  will  find  it  difficult  to  learn  aught  else  rcspeccing 

We  first  became  accjuainted  with  Mr.  Emerson  as  a  p04*t,  through  the  JfanU  •( 
Truth,  published  by  I^'wis  A.  Iliiie,  in  Cincinnati,  in  18-17  and  18-M.  Sinee  lltf 
tiiiK*  he  has  not  often  contributed  to  magazines  or  new<ipapers  ;  but  in  1850  a  vdHa 
(*uinp()&ed  of  his  poi'Uis,  was  printtnl  by  his  brother,  Gi-orgc  D.  Emerson,  nt  Spat 
ticlil,  Ohio,  for  private  cin-ulation.  It  was  entitled  **OccaMonal  Thoughia  in  Ti 
aixl  is  a  dinHlrciino  of  ow  liiiiidnHl  and  two  pa;r«'s — containing  thirty 
Thr  jMNMiis  s«'hTt('ii  tor  this  work  an*  from  that  vuluine,  exci*|)ting  '^ThoDyiif  ShU* 
and  "Who  are  the  Fn*e?"  HJiich  are  here  tir»t  publu^hed. 

(2M) 


1840-50.] 


WILLIAM   DANA   EMERSON. 


285 


TO  THE  OHIO  RIVER. 

Flow  on,  majestic  River  1 

A  mightier  bids  thee  come, 
And  join  him  on  his  radiant  waj, 
To  seek  an  ocean  home ; 
Flow  on  amid  the  vale  and  hill, 
And  the  wide  West  with  beauty  filL 

I  have  seen  thee  in  the  sunlight, 

With  the  summer  breeze  at  play, 
When  a  million  sparkling  jewels  shone 
Upon  thy  rippled  way ; 
How  fine  a  picture  of  the  strife 
Between  the  smiles  and  tears  of  life ! 

I  have  seen  thee  when  the  storm  cloud 

Was  mirrored  in  thy  face, 
And  the  tempest  started  thy  white  waves 
On  a  meny,  merry  race  ; 
And  I've  thought  how  little  sorrow's  wind 
Can  stir  the  deeply  flowing  mind. 

I  have  seen  thee  when  the  morning 

Hath  tinged  with  lovely  bloom 
Thy  features,  waking  tranquilly 
From  night's  romantic  gloom ; 
If  every  life  had  such  a  mom. 
It  were  a  blessing  to  be  bom  I 

And  when  the  evening  heavens 
Were  on  thy  canvas  spread. 
And  wrapt  In  golden  splendor,  Day 
Lay  beautiful  and  dead ; 
Thus  sweet  were  man's  expiring  breath, 
Oh,  who  would  fear  the  embrace  of  death  I 

And  when  old  Winter  paved  thee 

For  the  fiery  foot  of  youth ; 
And  thy  soil  waters  underneath 
Were  gliding,  clear  as  truth ; 
So  ofl  an  honest  heart  we  trace. 
Beneath  a  sorrow-frozen  face. 

And  when  thou  wert  a  chaos 
Of  crystals  thronging  on, 


Till  melted  by  the  breath  of  Spring, 
Thou  bidst  the  steamers  mn ; 
Then  thousands  of  the  fair  and  free 
Were  swiftly  borne  along  on  thee. 

But  now  the  Sun  of  summer 

Hath  left  the  sand-bars  bright, 
And  the  steamer's  thunder,  and  his  fires 
No  more  disturb  the  night ; 
Thou  seemest  like  those  fairy  streams 
We  sometimes  meet  with  in  our  dreams. 

How  Spring  has  decked  the  forest  I 

That  forest  kneels  to  thee ; 
And  the  long  canoe  and  the  croaking 
skiff, 
Are  stemming  thy  current  free  ; 
Thy  placid  marge  is  fringed  with  green, 
Save  where  the  villas  intervene. 

Again  the  rush  of  waters 

Unfurls  the  flag  of  steam, 
And  the  river  palace  in  its  pomp. 
Divides  the  trembling  stream ; 
Thy  angry  surges  lash  the  shore. 
Then  sleep  as  sweetly  as  before. 

Then  Autunm  pours  her  plenty, 

And  makes  thee  all  alive, 
With  floating  barks  that  show  how  well 
Thy  cultured  valleys  thrive ; 
The  undressing  fields  yield  up  their  grain. 
To  dress  in  richer  robes  again. 

Too  soon  thy  brinmiing  channel 

Has  widened  to  the  hill. 
As  if  the  lap  of  wealthy  plain 
With  deeper  wealth  to  fill ; 
Oh  !  take  not  more  than  thou  dost  give. 
But  let  the  toil-worn  cotter  live. 

Oh !  could  I  see  thee  slumber. 
As  thou  wast  wont  of  yore. 
When  the  Indian  in  his  birchen  bark, 
Sped  lightly  from  the  shore ; 
Then  fiery  eyes  gleamed  through  the  wood. 
And  thou  wast  often  tinged  with  blood. 


I  KG 


WILLIAM   DANA  KHEKSON. 


TliL'  toniuliawk  nnrl  arrotr, 

The  wi^wiim  ami  the  deer, 
M:iil(>  ii|)  tlic  ivil  iiuin'd  little  world, 
Unknown  to  i<niilc  or  tenr ; 
Till-  ^|.i^l■,  the  turrel  und  the  trre, 
TIji'ti  iiiiiiglvJ  not  their  eliuilv:!  on  thee. 

Now  an  hundml  youtliful  cities 
Are  (ilnddenitl  b)'  tby  smile, 
Atid  tliy  breezi's  sweetened  through  Uxe 
fieLIs, 
Tlie  husbandman  lieguile; 
Those  UuIdH  were  pliinied  liy  the  brave,— 
Oil !  let  not  t'rauij  i-ome  near  their  gmve. 

Koll  on,  mr  own  bri;;ht  Riyer, 

In  Ivri'liiieSA  Rublime; 
Throtiph  every  n'OMin,  every  age, 
Tlie  favorite  of  Time ! 
Would  ilmt  my  wul  eonlil  with  thee  txiun,| 
Tbn>ugh  the  long  uenturica  to  come  I 

I  linvc  gazed  upon  thy  beauty. 

Till  my  heart  is  wt>d  to  thee  ; 
Tench  it  to  flow  o'er  life's  long  pluin. 
In  tnuiquil  majc^ly ; 
II-  i-Iuumel  growins  deep  and  wide — 
Atiiy  lleaven'a  own  tiea  receive  its  tide! 


TIIF:  IIILIJ^ 

SoMK  [line  fiir  the  vetthired  plain, 
Siiiiii'  lull);  for  the  IkiuiiiIIi-si'  M-a; 

Ami  -.>m<-  tnr  the  mountain  :iU>ve  the  r 
Hill  the  bilK  thehilU  tor  me! 

ll..«  l.ri'.'lil  i*  the  iwillin-f  «iil. 

A-  ii  minifies  widi  ll..-  >kv  ! 
ll..«  rlili  thr  -u.iu  .-ill..  r.-liiiK  jwdc 

On  ll>el«',ik  Ul.rl'r   llirb|v..cv.-.die! 

l[.r.-fn.nillii-<l.l.H>iiiiii-hill. 
Th>'  wiive  unil  ihe  muiiiit  I  see; 


Tlie  plain  and  the  river  lliat  wotdt  ■  i 
wilt— 
The  hills!  the  hills  I  ferM. 

Tlie  hills  fear  not  the  Ktorm; 

l)is«ai«  deliplitii  in  the  rmlt ; 
Here  the  head  is  cool,  and  ite  kan  i 

Ilotl  to  the  green  hilb,  hail  I 


WHO  ABE  THE  PKEBf 

As  ontre  I  rode  through  iha  deep  pn 

I  heiini  u  voice  that  Kirml  my  hloai 
With  itM  cliirion  ttmeii  that  were  Ml  n4 

And  it  o^^ked,  **  Who  are  tbe  bee?' 
There  wu:*  clapping  ol'  wingi  m  the  Mi 

rung. 
And  the  giant  trees  took  up  ibe  aa^ 
That  itliook  the  skies  as  it  rolled  elo^ 

And  a  wiki  bird  turned  to  ue: 
"  We  tniul  the  (itnstt,  or  awin  the  m. 
No  dc>|H>i  niinn  oUr  paai«i«afair, 

We  are  tlie  free" 
And  ilie  wild  wooils  echoed  Ihe  ihiilhg  i 

"  We  are  the  free." 

A*  once  I  rode  through  the  prairie  iM 
()a  tbe  ocean  Innd  my  eyes  were  <■( 
To  find  where  Ihe  wall  of  the  lbt«t|M[ 

lint  ni.  fori-l  «:,lU>.i,)ii  stt: 
A  mini,  dit-p  voice  )<prwi^oM«/ the  <V 
That  M-.n).s|.br  its  lone.ofUsvWjrlir 
Aix)  ii-  mii-i.-  ffll.fl  Ihe  horlMM^ftaAs 

And  it  a-k.-l.  WhoAHthatH^ 
Tli.-ui|.ltl..w<Tsl.Hikedw{thq 
Thrj  -.,-.  tii.'d  ibr-  ^.lurs  of  a  b 

Aii>l  ih.-v  aii.ner>sl,  -We  at«  the  An 
And  ill'-  l>i'i-ht  i-Iouds  echoed  Gram <■  Ml 
*•  We  an-  tin;  free." 


840-60.] 


WILLIAM    DANA   EMERSON. 


287 


TO  A  LOCUST-TREE. 

I  LOVE  thee,  locust-tree, 
Where'er  or  when  I  see, 
Not  for  thy  form  in  which  I  trace 
The  gently  curving  lines  of  grace ; 
But  for  those  forms  of  glee 
Thou  bring'st  to  memory, 
[y  earliest  playmates  'neath  the  merry 
locust-tree, 

I  love  thee,  locust-tree, 
Not  for  the  breezes  free, 
That    play    with    thy    velvet-fingered 

leaves ; 
Nor  the  fragrance  thy  rich  blossom  gives 
To  the  ever-busy  air, 
But  for  those  faces  fair — 
athed  in  the  locust's  cooling  shade— again 
I  see  them  there. 

I  love  thee,  locust-tree. 
For  the  song  that  rung  from  thee. 
Like  an  angel  choir,  when  the  morning 

beam 
Awakened  me  from  a  glorious  dream. 
The  song  it  came  unsought 
Through  the  window  of  my  cot, 
jid  roused  a  thrill  of  gratitude  for  my 
happy,  humble  lot. 

I  love  thee,  locust-tree. 
For  my  mother  seems  to  be 
Now  at  my  side,  as  wont  of  yore, 
When  she  taught  me  nature's  noblest 
lore: 
I  see  her  now  as  oft. 
With  hand  and  voice  so  soft, 
•he  pointed  through  the  boughs  of  green, 
and  bade  me  look  aloft  I 

I  love  thee,  locust-tree  ; 

My  father,  where  is  he  ? 
When  the  thunder  roared,  and  the  light- 
ning came, 
And  wound  the  locust  with  wire  of  fiame. 


How  sudden  was  my  cry ! 
He  searched  my  frighted  eye, 
"Son,  fear  the  voice  of  Hun  who  thunders 
from  on  high." 

I  love  thee,  locust-tree — 
'Twas  a  mournful  day  to  me, 
When  'neath  the  shade  in  front  of  our 

cot. 
My  sister's  coffin  was  slowly  brought ; 
And  a  dying  leaf  did  fall 
From  the  locust  on  the  pall. 
And  I  wept  as  we  bore  her  clay — not  her— 
to  the  narrow  funeral  hall. 

I  love  thee,  locust-tree, 
Thou  seem'st  a  &mily. 
That  I  may  never  see  again, 
Till  the  car  of  Death  bear  us  o'er  the 
plain; 
But  if  a  landscape  sweet 
Our  meeting  eyes  shall  greet, 
In  another,  happier  world,  'neath  a  locust 
may  we  meet  1 


SUNSmNB. 

When  the  sky  is  mild  and  blue. 

And  the  light  drops  down  like  dew, 

I  will  sit  me  'neath  the  shade, 

And  look  out  upon  the  glade. 

How  blessed  the  shine. 

To  the  sheep  and  the  kine ; 

To  the  dropsical  plant, 

To  the  architect  ant ; 

To  the  farmer  in  the  weeds. 

To  the  gardener  with  his  seeds. 

To  the  starving  washerwoman. 

To  the  harvest-gathering  yeoman ; 

To  the  sailor  on  the  sea. 

To  the  dreamer  like  of  me ; 

To  the  buoyant-souled  equestrian, 

To  the  landless  gay  pedestrian. 


288 


WILLIAM    DANA    EMERSON. 


[IM»4t 


Wlio  looks  on  all, 
Willi  the  eyv  of  one. 

Who  can  diire  to  call 
The  world  his  own  ; 
For  all  mankind  arc  brothers, 
And  what  Is  one  man's  is  another*?. 
The  vast  estate  of  one  Kind  Sire ; 
The  Sun  is  but  a  family  lire  I 


WHO  IS  RICH  ? 

*Tis  he  til  rough  whose  deep  channeled  soul, 
The  st(*udy  stream  of  Time  sluill  roll. 
And  leave  its  gold  and  gems  behind, 
To  fill  the  eofiers  of  the  mind ; 
Who  has  a  home  in  everv  clime, 
A  heavenly  Friend  in  ev^ry  time ; 
Who  call*:  the  blooming  Harth  his  mother, 
And  every  son  of  Karth  his  brother : 
Heaven  keeps  for  him  a  golden  nichi 
lie  has  the  world,  and  he  is  rich. 


THE  WKT. 

TiiK  West  I  the  West !  the  sunset  clime, 
The  last,  the  lovelii'st  |>a(h  of  Time  ; 
WlitTi'  (ilory  spreads  his  loAiest  flight, 
Kn'  Fair  .sliuil  hid  the  world  g«>od  night, 
AikI  Spirit  rist*s  high  and  higher, 
Ahovf  till.'  oitl  earthV  funeral  pyre ! 

Thr  Wi'^t  :  tin*  Wrst !  the  favoml  Jjist 
Hn-  >|in*ad  for  thi*e  her  trea-^unMl  fejL«t ; 
Ilrr  nMiiiiicn'e  brings  that  M*ii'inv  here, 
Wliirli  nt'^i  a  dozfn  «M*nturio  d«'ar; 
Arnl  LiiM-rty.  that  llt-d  Iht  shon*, 
Ki-i-^  oil  ti.cc  tf»  M't  no  iiiun* ! 

Thi    \V.,t:   il,,.  W.'st!  wlureis  theWfsl? 
'Twii-  In  r»' — *ti>  on  thf  prairit-V  bn'ast ; 


It  follows  the  declining  Sun 
Along  the  banks  of  Oregoo ; 
It  will  be  where  he  lays  his  piDov 
Upon  the  wide  Pacific's  biUow. 

The  West!  the  West!  and  o*cr  tkc Mi| 
Fast  as  the  Sun  the  shadows  flee ; 
Religion,  Learning,  Freedom  hi^ 
Tlieir  mantles  drop  while  pMong  by; 
On  China's  towers  their  flag  ia  glriBiii^ 
And   wakes    whole   empires    fitaa   thai 
dreaming. 

The  West!  the  West!  stOI  oowBid««l; 
And  now  the  Earth  indeed  is  bless'd; 
Lo  I  here  the  spot  where  Eden  stood. 
And  there  where  Jesus  shed  his  bktad! 
The  morning  star  above  sospended ! 
The  East  and  West  tOj$etlier  blended ! 


THE  DYING  SAIKT. 

Let  me  go!  my  Saviour  csDs 
I» !  I  see  his  smiling  eye ; 

If  'ti<  death  that  now  befidb 
^'is  a  blessed  thing  to  die. 

Glori«*s  on  my  nsion  flow ; 

Oh !  to  rfach  them  let  me  go! 


Now  I  sc*e  my  giuinlian  angel 
Waiting,  watching  round  mj  beds 

See  !  he  In-ars  a  crown  of  glocy, 
S<N>n  to  place  it  on  my  head; 

Then*  the  I^mb  of  God  I 

1  will  (*:ist  it  at  his  fret. 


Hark,  I  hr*ar  those  angel  Toiees! 

Ilai-k  !  tli<*y  bid  me  quicUj 
All  i<  nady,  all  is  waiting; 

Li-t !  I  hear  them  say,  oooM 
KnMhiT.  sifter,  you  will  comes 
Wif[»  not,  love,  I  hey  11  bring 


1 


EDWIN   R.  CAMPBELL. 


>wiN  R.  Campbell,  a  brother  of  Lewis  D.  Campbell,  well  known  as  a  member 
ongress,  and  a  leading  politician  in  southern  Ohio,  is,  we  believe,  a  native  of  Bat- 
xmtj,  Ohia  He  learned  the  printing  business  in  Cincinnati,  and  in  youth  was  a 
lent  writer  for  the  newspapers  of  that  city. 

1841  Mr.  Campbell  was  the  editor  of  the  Cincinnati  Daily  Times.  In  1848 
1849  he  conducted  tiie  Cineinnati  Daily  Dispatch,  and  was  afterward  one  of  the 
rs  of  the  Ohio  Statesman.  He  is  now  in  California.  His  poems  were  written 
ly  for  the  Hesperian^  and  for  the  Knickerbocker^  of  New  York  City. 


"  LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT.'- 

KNES8  was  on  the  mighty  deep ; 
3  light  was  kindled  there ; 
et  a  drear,  unbroken  sleep, 
ly  on  the  sky  and  air ; 
yet  the  sun's  all-quickening  ray 
given  to  earth  the  primal  day. 

noming  light  had  ever  shone 

pon  the  new-formed  world, 

had  the  evening's  starry  zone 

5  splendors  yet  unfurl'd, 

ight  the  dark  and  trackless  waste, 

rhich  His  impress  had  been  placed. 

t  there  be  light !  " — ^and  as  the  word 
ime  fcMth  o'er  earth  and  sea, 
ousand  angel  harps  were  heard 
)  sound  with  melody, 
voices  mingled  with  the  chord — 
)ld  the  light — "  Praise  ye  the  Lord  I " 

t  there  be  light ! " — ^the  lightning  wove 
round  its  dazzling  chain, 

from  the  darkness  far  above 
ei<>ended  on  the  plain, 

wrote,  upon  the  face  of  night, 
uraing  words,  "Let  tliere  be  light  1" 


And  light  was  on  the  ocean  wave, 

And  in  the  dashing  spray  ; 
Farcin  the  deep,  the  glitt'ring  cave 

Received  the  vivid  ray, 
And  many  a  gem  with  luster  bright, 
Flashed  back  the  word — ^"'Let  there  be 
light." 

"  Let  there  be  light  I  ** — the  rainbow's  hue, 

Where  mingle  gorgeous  dyes, 
Far  in  the  vaulted  arch  of  blue 

Is  painted  on  the  skies ; 
Its  scroU  unfolds  to  mortal  sight- 
Behold,  oh  man !  "Let  there  be  light  I  ** 

Then  praise  to  Him  whose  power  divine 

Lit  up  the  glittering  skies, 
Who  taught  earth's  glowing  orb  to  shine 

With  light  that  never  dies, 
Wlio  from  the  deep  raised  earth  in  air 
And  set  His  seal  of  glory  there. 

**  Let  there  be  light!" — ^while  time  remains, 

By  power  benignest  given. 
O'er  earth's  benighted  hills  and  plains—    * 

The  glorious  light  of  heaven, 
That  breaks  through  Superstition's  gloom, 
And  sheds  a  halo  round  the  tomb. 


(289) 


19 


REBECCA  8.  NICHOLS. 


L. 


With  youn^  women  just  completing  their  teenn,  pot'trj  rerj  oA 
al):«orbing  fiassion  and  a  power  of  no  lunall  account ;   which  pawioo 
way  to  the  demand:*  of  domestic  duties,  and  wliich  |K>wer,  though  it  maj 
miitiin*  intellectual  force,  becomes  Icas  and  less  exercised,  as  the  crown  of 
o|)ens  a  new  empire  for  the  affectional  dominion  of  the  woman-MuL     Whh  lew 
tions,  this  is  the  univeival  truth  of  female  authoi^hip,  which  exoeptiooa 
in  favor  of  tliose  women  wlio  marry  late  in  life,  or  not  at  alL 

The  active  liteniry  career  of  Mrs.  Nichols  is  embraced  within  the  period  of 
years,  from  about  1840,  though  some  of  her  rii>er  productions  are  spnntclj' 
over  the  five  yean*  subsequent  to  this  period,  while  for  the  last  few  jettn  alw 
have  withdrawn  almost  entirt'ily  from  tlie  field  of  belle-lettres. 

Iiebec*ca  S.  Retnl  wi»  bom  in  Greenwich,  New  Jersey.     While  the  wif  jH  a 
child,  her  father,  £.  B.  Reed,  a  physician,  removed  with  his  family  to  the  WeilpWiHl  I 
hiis  since  been  her  home,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  yean  fbliowii^  l9St^ 
when  she  resided  at  Philadelphia  and^n  New  Jersey.     While  resiiUng  at 
Kentucky,  in  the  year  1838,  Miss  Reed  wa^  marH^  to  Willard  Nicbolii 
accompanied  to   St.  Louis,   Missouri,   in   1840,  where   Mr.  N. 
publication  of  a  daily  news  and  misoelkmeous  paper,  in  the  editing  of 
Nichols  a*«sisted  her  husband,  though  she  was  yet  almost  a  child  in 
ricnce.     In  1841  Mr.  Nichols  and  wife  left  St.  Louis  to  iBke  up  their  abode  ia  Gfr 
cinnati,  where   they  (continued  to   reside  most  of  the  time  until  1851.     Tlii  *■  a 
]M'riod  of  considerable  literary  activity  in  that  region,  which  eventuated  in 
ing  <iut  of  some  of  the  best  writers  the  West  has  ever  produced. 
these,  Mrs.  Nichols  ripem^  into  the  ai*knowiedged  mistress  of  soog,  with 
in  a<lvance  of  all  her  huly  com|)etitors  of  that  day. 

Mt^.  Nichols's  earliest  ]M><>ms  were  published  in  the  Louisville  Xem 
JjouiiviUe  Journal^  over  the  signature  of  Ellex.     In  1844  she  pablHbed  i 
volume  entitled '^Berenice,  or  the  Curse  of  Minna,  and  other  Poema.*    Ika 
I>al  poem  in  this  volume  is  a  res|MTtable  girl-tragedy,  of  the  school 
blossonuti  into  the  sensational  literature  of  the  KaMeni  periodical  p; 
the  minor  piei^es  an^  of  d<*cided  merit.     Only  a  small  edition  of  this  book 
and  it  is  now  rarely  to  be  met  with. 

Ill  ISIG  Mrs.  Ni<'hoIs  condutied  a  literary  |)eriodii*al  in  Cincinnati,  called  Tki 
which  attained  to  t'ORsidcRible  )»opularity,  luid   in  which  hhe  |Mibiiahed  naBjefte 
|HMti('aI  comi)0>itioiis  of  that  period.     She  wa^  aNo  a  contributor  to 
zinf,  Thr  Khickerhttrker^  and  uthiT  Eastern  |>eri(Hlii*als.     Karly  in  her 
Mpi.   Ni<*hols  c*ontributed  to  the  Cincinnati  llerahh  conducted  hj  the  iale 
1  (alley,  a  series  of  sprightly  ])a])«*rs  under  the  wmi  de  piume  of  Kati  CtMA' 


REBECCA   8.   NICHOLS.  291 

•U8  irraption  into  the  field  of  literature,  was  no  small  puzzle  to  the  critics 

literateurs  of  the  Queen  City,  who,  afler  exhausting  all  their  ingenuity 
tavors  to  discover  the  author,  were  forced  to  acknowledge  that,  whoever 
iland"  mighrbe,  she  was  certainly  a  bright  particular  star  in  the  literary 
iVlien  it  became  known  that  the  mysterious  mask  was  no  other  than 

that  lady  had  received  an  indorsement  of  literary  peerage,  as  flattering 
t  had  been  confounding  to  her  admirers. 

nder  the  patronage  of  Nicholas  Longworth,  was  published  a  large  and 
le  of  Mrs.  Nichols's  later  poems,  under  the  title  of  "Songs  of  the  Heart 
earth-Stone,''  from  the  press  of  Thomas,  Cowperthwaite  &  Co.,  Phila- 
r.  F.  Desilver,  Cincinnati.     Such  was  the  established  popularity  of  our 

time,  that  the  appreciative  and  enterprising  publishers  of  the  Cindn- 
lal,  M.  D.  Potter  &  Co.,  entered  into  an  arrangement  with  her,  to  pay 
e  for  an  original  poem  for  each  week,  if  she  chose  to  write  so  oflen, 
3ment  was  continued  for  some  time,  to  the  honor  of  the  publishers  and  a 
Ion  of  the  worth  of  the  writer.  A  collection  of  these  and  other  later 
i  selection  from  her  previous  publications,  would  furnish  material  for  a 
which  would  add  largely  to  the  reputation  of  the  author  as  a  writer  of 
passioned  verse.  The  two  published  volumes  do  not  contain  any  thing 
quence  equal  to  some  of  these  later  pieces,  which  are  as  yet  only  the 
(paper  broidery. 

first  entrance  into  literary  life,  Mrs.  Nichols  has  been  tossed  upon  the 
cumstance.  The  untimely  death  of  children,  and  the  fluctuations  of 
i  throwing  their  shadows  over  her  young  years,  and  though  of  a  most 
hopeful  spirit,  she  was  forced  to  mingle  many  tears  with  the  sunniest 
f  her  life.  Her  natural  buoyancy,  and  a  high-bred  personal  pride— not 
aud,  but  a  nice  perception  of  the  proprieties  of  civilized  society — ^have 
er  props  to  sustain  her,  where  ordinary  character  would  have  broken 
sly  long  before.  The  strongest  and  brightest  phase  of  her  character  is 
istian  mother,  and  the  wail  of  bereaved  maternity  is  the  most  touching 
ler  pen.  Next  to  this,  are  the  infinite  yearnings  of  a  soul  that  would 
ct  complement  in  a  love  as  deep  and  holy  as  its  own.  Add  to  these,  an 
ming  toward  the  quiet  of  domestic  life,  and  if  fortune  had  vouchsafed 
lent  and  prosperous  home  with  husband  and  children,  the  world  would 
ttle  of  her  minstrelsy,  afler  the  first  flush  of  her  girlish  exuberance,  "  in 
tant  time." 

qualifications,  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Nichols 
t  imagination  so  much  as  emotion,  or  that  it  should  deal  as  eloquently 
ature,.as  with  the  reflective  pulses  of  passion;    and  that  her  chastened 

have  been  bom  of  a  sorrow  that  sits  above  the  tomb,  as  was  written  of 
t  friend.     Of  seven  children,  only  two  remain,  whose  plea<umt  portraits 

us,  in  the  lines  to  "Wee  Willie"  and  "Lily  BelL"  Of  all  her  cotem- 
e  bright  galaxy  of  song,  who  clustered  in  unenvious  rivalry  at  that  day, 


292 


REBKCCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


[IMM 


with  none  was  Mre.  Nichols  in  euch  perfect  chord,  u  with  the  true 
Otway  Curry,  and  whoM  antimely  grave  she  has  bcdcwod  with  Um 
team. 

Notwithstanding  the  palpable  bias  which  we  charge  ftg»»n«^  the 
Nichols'A  writings,  there  arc  in  her  several  productions  a  range  of  eab|eel 
of  handling,  in  various  and  dissimilar  styles,  which  effeefiiallj 
that  she  was  radically  cx>nfiiied  to  any  class  of  subject  or  mode  of 
following  selections  amply  show  her  equally  at  home  in  the  dainty 
song,  the  high- voiced  minstrelsy  of  pliilosophy,  the  weird  mysticianM  of 
an<l  the  smothered  soul-cry  of  anguish.     With  all  these  qualiilcatioDa, 
itate  to  present  our  author  a»  worthy  of  an  honorable  place  beside  ike 
cluldren  of  song,  in  our  Hesperian  Republic  of  letters. 


n  ■■itiBij  rf  H 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRATER. 

A  BOOK,  oh,  God  of  love  ! 
Who  dwelleth  in  iUv  sph<^red  realms  afar. 
Who  hath  ^  a  chunii  to  s^tay  the  morning 
star 

In  his  lone  coun«e  "  alcove. 

Before  thy  throne  we  bow. 
Thou  God,  most  infinitely  holy ;  just 
Are  thy  decrees  to  man ;  what  puny  dtist 

Dare  brave  thine  angered  brow  ? 

A  boon  we  humbly  crave 
From  thy  right  hand,  that  hath  mysterious 

power 
To  chain  the  rushing  winds,  renew  the  dy- 
ing hour, 
And  animate  the  grave. 

liook  down  upon  me,  light 
( )f  the  eternal  heavens !  o'er  my  soul 
'i'hy  mantle  spread,  and  with  go<l-like  con- 
trol 

Dis|K!l  this  darkling  night. 

1  feel  thy  presence  now ; 
And  thou  wilt  gaze  upon  my  sinless  boy, 
Thi*  star  that  c«*4iters  all  a  mother's  joy ; 

Look  on  liis  stainless  brow. 


Shall  aught  like 
E'er  blot  that  lovely  and 
Shall  feelings  war,  and  sinful 

Within  that  fragile  frame  P 

I  would  not,  at  his  nod, 
That  titled  honors  and  a 
Should  wait,  nor  wealth  of 

I  ask  not  these,  oh,  God! 


Nor  may  ambitious  breadi 
E'er  taint  this  pure  young  being  wrikah| 
That  auprht  that  appertains  to  dott  OB Mj 

With  btcm,  relentless  Death  I 


But  till  the  mouldering  sod 
Shall  cover  him  from  view. 
In  thy  defense— and  may  he 

Communion  with  his  God ! 


TIIK  PIIllX)S()rUEB  Tcua 

Dowic  deep  in  a  hollowi  so 
cold. 
When*  oaks  are  by  ivy  o"( 
The  gniy  moss  and  lichea 
mould. 
Lying  loose  on  a 


REBECCA   S.   NICHOLS. 


293 


hin  this  huge  stone,  like  a  king  on 

throne, 

as  been  sitting  more  years  than  is 

wn ; 

nge  as  it  seems,  jet  he  constantly 

ns 

Id  standing  still  while  he's  dream- 

his  dreams — 

s  wonderful  toad,  in  his  cheerful 

le 

ermost  heart  of  that  flinty  old  stone, 

ny-haired  moss  and  the  lichen  o'er- 

m. 

^p  in  the  hollow,  from  morning 

light, 

liadows  glide  over  the  ground, 

.  water-course  once,  as  it  sparkled 

light, 
i  a  ruined  old  mill-wheel  around : 
ITS  have  passed  by  since  its  bed 
ime  dry, 

trees   grew   so  close,  scarce  a 
ipse  of  the  sky 

1  the  hollow,  so  dark  and  so  damp, 
le  glow-worm  at  noonday  is  trim- 
l  his  lamp; 

ly  a  sound,  from  the  thicket  around, 
be  rabbit  and  squirrel  leap  over 
^und, 

by  the  toad,  in  his  spacious  abode, 
uermoet  heart  of  that  ponderous 

;ray-haired  moss  and  the  lichen 

pX)Wll* 

ep  in  that  hollow  the  bees  never 

b; 

lade  is  too  black  for  a  flower; 

;l-winged  birds,  with  their  musical 

flash  in  the  night  of  that  bower : 

»ld-blooded  snake,  in  the  edge  of 

brake, 

1  the  rank  grass  half  asleep,  half 

ke; 


And  the  ashen-white  snail,  with  the  slime 

in  its  trail. 
Moves  wearily  on,  like  a  life's  tedious  tale, 
Yet  disturbs  not  the  toad  in  his  spacious 

abode. 
In  the  innermost  heart  of  that  flin^  old 

stone. 
By  the  gray-haired  moss  and  the  lichen 

o'ergrown. 

Down  deep  in  a  hollow  some  wiseacres  sit, 

Like  the  toad  in  his  cell  in  the  stone ; 
Around  them,  in  daylight,  the  blind  owlets 

flit, 
And  their  creeds  are  by  ivy  o'ergrown : 
Their  streams  may  go  dry,  and  the  wheels 

cease  to  ply. 
And  their  glimpses  be  few  of  the  sun  and 

the  sky. 
Still  they  hug  to  their  breast  every  time- 
honored  guest, 
And  slumber  and  doze  in  inglorious  rest ; 
For  no  progress  they  find  in  the  wide 

sphere  of  mind, 
And  the  world's  standing  still  with  all  of 

their  kind ; 
Contented  to  dwell  down  deep  in  the  well, 
Or  move,  like  the  snail,  in  the  crust  of  his 

shell ; 
Or  live,  like  the  toad,  in  his  narrow  abode, 
With  their  souls  closely  wedged  in  a  thick 

wall  of  stone. 
By  the  gray  weeds  of  prejudice  rankly 

o'ergrown. 


THE  LOST  SOUL. 

Mt  soul  went  out  in  darkness,  like  the 
moon, 

When  sudden  clouds  drive  o'er  the  mid- 
night sky; 

And  life  was  at  its  zenith ;  the  hot  noon 

Had  scorched  and  withered  with  its  flaming 
eye. 


294 


REBECCA   S.    NICHOLS. 


[1* 


All  of  my  spring's  sweet  children  that 

could  die ; 
But  some  there  were,  thougli  shrunken  by 

the  fire, 
Bright  blossom!^  grown  for  immortalitj — 
Stood  up  beneath  the  fierceness  of  tliat  ire. 
As  strings,  though  broke,  will  cling  unto 

the  master^s  lyre. 

The  year  was  young — it  was  tlie  tender 

May, 
When  violet-sandaled  feet  were  wet  with 

dew  ; 
The  roses  budded  on  the  nodding  spray. 
And  leaves  were  green  ujmn  the  solemn 

yew 
Tlmt  from  the  bo^^om  of  the  church-yard 

grew; 
The  moss  assumed  a  soAer,  deeper  tone. 
Where  streams  tripped  lightly  o*er  their 

pebbled  way, 
And  in  its  emerald  robes,  with  diamond 

zone. 
The  Flarth  lay  like  a  child  that  sleeps 

witliout  a  moan. 


And  to  the  soft-eyed  flowcrii 

bom, 
And  to  the  winds  that  wlii^end  the 

light. 
Where  winged  odors  nestled  froM  tk  i 
My  heart,  in  passionate  entreaij«cri0 
(Still  bleeding  inward  from  adendly  il 
**  Oh,  give  me  back  mj  wul !  the  irae- 

tried"— 
But  echo's  empty  Toioe  alone  Id  k  nf 

Along  new  paths,  o'er  beds  of  pcHh 

thyme, 
Wliose  soul  exhaled  beneath  mj  bip 

tread; 
And  under  roofs,  where  nft  the  jd 

lime 
Shone  like  faint  atan  amid  the  lami 

head; 
And  through  the  rallejs  when  Ati 

worn  dead 
Had  made  firm  ooTenant  with  DhA 

rest 
From  all  the  tortures  of  this  prcMl  i 
This  heart,  still  throblnng  wiUy  ii 

breast, 
My  luilf-relurtant  feet  jet 

pressed. 


The  soul  that  wandered  through  the  halls 

of  night, 
Where  darkness  curtained  every  windowcllT.,^^^^  lone,  bb.rk  foi»tt.a>iA. 

dome.  111. 

I         blacker  caveis 
W,«  .tung  to  madn<^*  ere  it  fled  the  light :  ■  .p,,^  j^^^„,^  ^^,j      u^c  •  t«I«»  H 

Ami  .IS  a  Htar  unsphend  m.ght  wildly  n«m  ^^^,^.^.  ^^  the  Mmnd  of  i«*»  ta 

i  lirough  seas  ot  space,  and  airy  clouds  ot 

foam. 

Blind  to  all  laws  that  govern,  rule,  or  pruide. 

Still  shootinc:  onwanl  in  its  dn'ury  flicht!    x-     T       •     i-  i .-       *u  7  t  j. 

.p,       ,. ,  ,1   ,       ,  ,.        ,, .  ^  ,.,.    ,.    ^o  star  eer  lighting  the  peffpctmi  p 

1  hus  did  that  soul  Irom  this  wunn  lite  di-  „  .       .  .,  ^    - > •      -i  . 

But   wlu're   the    imprisoned 

vide, 
And  rush  where  darkness  rolls  its  strong 
and  swollen  tide. 


mg  waves. 
That  dash  against  the  edimeniiae  ail 
( )r  ru>h  all  sullen  to  their  digadfiil 


TIm*  year  was  young,  and  to  the  blushing 

mom 
That  came  all  smiling  from  the  arms  of 

night. 


hoarsely  raves, 
^Vllirlillg  its  victims  to  an  awM 
If  guideless  they  go  down  the  iettM< 

less  tomb  I 

On,  o*<'r  frail  bridges  fwnng  fioa  rt^ 

steep 
Of  cloud-defying  diffis  whom  dn^  ki 


REBECCA   S.    NICHOLS. 


296 


288  chamois  scarce  would  dare  to 

! 

r  below,  oh,  wan   and    dismal 

! 

hing  bones  :  the  traveler  shrinks 

y  midwaj  o'er  the  deep  abyss, 

ering  nerves  like  adders  o*er  him 

►  I 

»hing    through    his    brain  are 

fhts  like  this — 

>rt  a  step  is  here  to  lasting  woe 

issl" 

ard  still!   through  long,  bright 

ler  days, 

nshine    rippled    o'er   a  sea  of 

isj  hollows— over  briery  ways — 
onely  gorge  and  arched  and  rocky 

x)my  grandeur  pierced  my  heart 

s\ 

I  moment  of  one  perished  hour, 

a  rainbow  in  its  glittering  rays, 

le  up  to  an  immortal  bower, 

ope,  divinely  bright,  shines  out 

gh  cloud  and  shower  I 

the  Autumn,  drunken  deep  with 

rom  the  purple  grape,  reeled  o'er 
md; 

f  fingers  pinched  the  rambling 

• 

9 

I  came  cutting  through  the  breezes 

I; 

ind  flower  was  laid  a  palsying 

•drawn  notes  of  insect-lyres  no 

he  young  twilight  of  the  whis- 
g  pines ; 

)  stole  along  the  wood  and  shore, 
mer*8  gentle  trance,  with  all  its 
was  o'er. 


But  ever  still  was  this  my  heart's  shrill  cry 
(That,  like  a  prisoned  eagle,  beat  its  bars). 
Oh !  give  me  back  my  soul,  thou  pure,  blue 

sky. 
Or  draw  me  upward  to  thy  sphered  stars. 
Enthroned  like  gods  upon  their  flaming 

cars. 
Their  wheels  strike  fire  as  swift  they  roll 

through  space — 
Oh,  leave  me  not  alone,  my  soul,  to  die ! 
Give  me  one  print  thy  flying  track  to  trace. 
Lest,  lifUng  up  my  voice,  I  curse  thee  and 

thy  race! 

But  the  sky  heard  not,  and  the  moon  grew 

dim. 
As  mists  wound  upward  from  the  sleeping 

vale; 
Like  giant  forms,  they  climbed  the  heaven's 

blue  rim. 
And  all  the  stars  grew  sudden  faint  and 

pale. 
As  through  the  forests  came  the  hollow 

wail 
Of  spectral  winds,  that  madly  swept  along. 
And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  ocean's  hymn. 
Burst    into   chorus   wild  and    deep  and 

strong, 
Till  all  the  caves  of  night  o'erflowed  with 

mournful  song  I 

Then,  by  the  margin  of  that  mighty  river 

That  rolls  between  us  and  the  shores  of 
rest. 

Whose  bitter  waves  flow  on,  and  on,  for- 
ever. 

With  hapless  shipwrecks  on  their  heaving 
breast. 

Drifting,  like  shadows,  toward  the  climes 
unblessed — 

My  wandering  feet  were  stayed — ^and  there 
I  mourned 

The  broken  arrows  in  life*s  golden  quiver. 

The  ashes  dead  that  on  hope's  altar  burned ; 

While  all  my  vital  part  for  its  lost  essence 
yearned. 


296 


REBECCA   S.   NICIIOL& 


PM»A 


And  still  I  sit  among  the  rustling  reodji, 
The  plumed  flugs  that  rock  upon  the  hreeze ; 
Amid   the   sands,  and  shells,  and   briny 

weeds, 
And  broken  boughs  of  branching  coral  trpcs. 
The  sparicling  waits  of  dim  and  distant 

seas ; — 
Mj  hesTij  still  wailing  that  which  fled  be- 
fore, 
Counts  its  lost  moments,  as  a  nun   her 

beads. 
With  eager  haftte,  to  pass  beyond  the  shore 
Where  anguished  ones  may  rest,  and  night 
returns  no  more  I 


THE  SHADOW. 

Twice  beside  the  crumbling  well, 

Where  the  lichen  clingeth  fust— * 
Twice  the  shadow  on  them  fell. 

And  the  breeze  went  wailing  past. 
^  Shines  the  moon  this  eve,  as  brightly 

As  the  harvest-moon  may  shine  ; 
Stands  each  stai*  that  glimmers  nightly, 

Like  a  saint,  within  its  shrine ; 
Whence  the  shade,  then,  whence  the  shad- 
ow? 

Canst  thou  tell,  sweet  lady  mino?" 

But  the  lady's  cheek  was  pale, 

And  her  lips  wen*  marble  white, 
As  she  c1us|kh1  her  silken  vuil, 

Fhmting  in  the  silver  light ; 
Liki*  an  luigcl's  wing  it  glistened, 

Like  a  sybil  seemed  the  maid; 
Hut  in  vain  the  lover  listeninl ; 

SilfHce  on  her  lips  was  laid — 
Though  they  niove<l,  no  sound  had  broken 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  glade. 

Hriirliter  grew  her  burning  eyes ; 

Wan  ttn<l  thin  the  rtiunded  cheek ; 
Wa*i  it  t<*rn»r  or  surprise. 

That  forluuie  th(*  lips  to  s|)eak  ? 


To  his  heart,  then,  creeping  aIovIt, 
Came  a  strange  and  deadly  tar; 

Words  and  sounds  profiuie,  iiBholjy 
Stole  into  his  shrinkiiig  ear ; 

And  the  moon  sank  snddeo  dowswui 
Leaving  earth  and  heaven  drear! 

Slowly  from  the  lady's  fipa 

Burst  a  deep  and  heavy  ligh. 
As  from  some  kxig,  dark  tclifmi, 

Kose  the  red  moon  in  the  ahy; 
Saw  he  then  the  lady  knedi^ 

Cold  and  fainting  by  the  wcfl ; 
Eyes,  once  filled  with  tender  mfamug. 

Closed  beneath  some  hiddea  fpefl; 
What  was  heard  he  dared  not  wUipH; 

Wliat  he  feared  were  death  to  td. 


S 


The  little  hand 

Which  to  him  so  wiUlj 
Raven  was  the  glosay  hair 

From  off  the  nwwj 
Much  t<x>  fair,  that  hand,  ibr 

With  a  crime  of  darkeM  dje: 
But  the  moon  again  ii  waning 

In  the  pale  and  staiieaa  tkj  % 
Hark !  what  words  are  dowlj  hBm§ 

On  the  breeie  that  sweqit  theB  kj? 


**  Touch  her  not  I "  the  voiea  b 

^  Wrench  thy  mantle  from 
Thus  the  disembodied 

Warns  from  that  poUni 
^  Touch  her  not,  but  still  look  on 

All  an  angel  seemeth  abe  t 
Yet  the  guilty  stains  npoo 

Shame  the  fiend's  dark 
But  her  hideous  crime  is 

Under  heaven's  canopy," 

Twice  beside  the  crumbling  mttf 
Where  the  lichen  rlingeth  fiat ; 

Twitt*  the  >hadow  on  them  ftH, 
And  the  bnf*ze  went  wailing  |Mal; 

Twice  th(>  voii-e*s  hollow  warning 
Pienvd  the  haunted  niidn%hl  air; 


1840-50.] 


REBECCA   8.    NICHOLS. 


297 


Then  the  golden  light  of  morning 
Streamed  upon  the  lady  there ; 

Thej  who  found  her,  stark  and  lonely, 
Said  the  corse  was  very  fidr. 


WEB  WILLIE. 

OuB  Willie  is  a  little  hoy, 

I  do  not  know  a  holder ; 
And,  though  his  years  are  scarcely  two. 

He  seems,  to  us,  much  older; 
He  is  a  famous  hand  at  play, 

With  horse  and  whip,  or  rattle. 
And  more  than  half  the  summer-day. 

Delights  us  with  his  prattle. 

Wee  Willie  loves  the  open  air, 

Far  from  the  dusty  city ; 
And  though  he's  hrown  as  any  hue, 

To  us  he's  feir  and  pretty. 
We  see  him  not  as  others  see. 

Perhaps,  not  half  so  clearly, 
Yet,  if  more  heautiful  to  us, 

Tis — that  we  love  more  dearly. 

Wee  Willie  has  a  little  song, 

He  sings  when  he  is  merry, — 
Each  small  word  lingering  on  his  lip. 

Like  bird  upon  a  cherry, — 
He  has  not  learned  to  utter,  jetj 

His  thoughts,  in  speech  unbroken ; 
But  deepest  joy  to  us  they  give. 

Although  but  partly  spoken. 

Wee  Willie  has  some  naughty  ways. 

His  warmest  friends  displeasing,— 
la  willful  when  his  sport  is  crossed, 

And  fond  of  noise  and  teasing : 
But  then  he  is  so  small  a  boy. 

We  hope  by  word  and  letter. 
To  teach  him  ere  he  grows  a  man, 

Some  gentler  way,  and  better. 

W<ie  Willie  is  the  last  of  four, — 
The  others  sweetly  slumber ; 


For  counting  o'er  our  little  flock,     . 

Three  angels  now  we  number : 
Three  angels  gone,  and  in  our  hearts 

Three  wounds  our  grief  attesting : 
And  in  the  church-yard,  side  by  side, 

Three  little  coffins  resting. 

Wee  Willie  is  our  only  child, — 

Our  hope— our  bud  of  brightness ; 
He  came,  a  bird,  in  sorrow's  gloom, 

With  song  and  smile  of  lightness ; 
What  wonder,  then,  that  while  we  love, 

It  is  with  fear  and  trembling. 
Lest,  in  this  happy,  healthful  guise. 

Dark  Death  should  be  dissembling. 

Wee  Willie !  may  that  Mighty  Arm, 

Which  guards  His  children  ever, 
Give  strength  unto  thy  faltering  steps, 

And  to  each  weak  endeavor. 
Our  Father!  fill  Wee  Willie's  heart 

With  thought  and  purpose  holy. 
And  grant  to  him  that  priceless  gem — 

A  spirit  meek  and  lowly. 


A  LA31ENT. 

I  DO  lament  me ! — If  my  love  had  died — 
Had  sought  the  verge  of  Death's  ex- 
treme abyss. 
Garbed  in   immortal  truth!  they  would 
have  lied 
Who  said  that  grief  had  not  been  heaven 
to  this  I 

I  might  have  risen  from  the  stunning  blow 
And  wept  and  raved,  accusing  madly. 
Heaven ! 
Then  midst  the  sudden  blasphemy  of  woe 
Dropped  by  the  dead,  and  prayed  to  be 
forgiven ! 


298 


REBECCA   S.   NICHOLS. 


[1 


I  luiglit  liavc  grown  appalled  and  slinink 
awaj 
From  the  eternal  palencRs  on  tliat  brow  ! 
And  irom  those  eyes  that  made  my  dark- 
ness day, 
EoliiK<ed   tbrcver!    by  their  curtaining 
snow. 

I  mi^lit  have  long  cons^umed  the  diij^raal 
nights 
With   lasting  vigils;    and  have   flung 
aside 
All  thoughts,  all  feelings,  liopes  and  young 
dt'lights, 
Tliat  were  my  solace,  ere  my  lover  died. 

S(K)n  I  had  worn  a  path  across  the  swanl. 
To  that  new-shapen  mound  among  the 
llowors, 
There,  like  a  stricken,  love-forsaken  bard. 
To   King   sad  anthems  to  the  moanuig 
hours ! 

B(*ref)  of  thee,  the  sun  had  shone  in  vain ! 
No  star  liad  gilt  the  darkness  uf  my 
^loom ; 
My  only  joy,  each  year,  to  hail  apiin 
Sprinji's  flowery   footprints   round   thy 
gnissy  tomb! 

I   do   lament   me! — ^Tlioiigh   earth   holds 
tiu'c,  still 
IX>  I  not  know  thou*rt  wholly  dead  to 
me  ? 
That  iH'Vcr  more  thy  name  can  wake  tlu* 
thrill 
That  stirred  each  trembling  pulse  to  e<*- 

Mliry  ! 

Tho  drt'amy  passions  of  the  quickening 

>prin;:— 

TItf  tniiit,  deli(*i(»u^  lan^riior  of  her  motMl. 

Siiatl  niuinl  my  soul  no  inmv  thi'ir  xircvry 

tiiii*:, 

<  )r  liMiM'  il»r  cum-iits  of  niv  frozen  bKiod. 


The  floating  fragrance  of  tlie  Munnifei 

The  dazzling  rudiADoe  of  the  e* 

ekies — 

The  brooding  night  thai  Menu  in  1 

less  prayer ; 

All  are  as  naught  to  mj  obdnnie 

For  I  am  dead  to  benutj  and  to  1ot< 

Suiee  thou  hast  died   thus  eari^ 

me:  — 

The  flowers  below,  the  burning  Mai^ 

Are  linked  in  thought  with  perft 

theel 

I  do  lament  me !  Yet  no  iolded  pal 
Nor  ** outward  show"  of  narei 
grief, 

Shall  a>k  of  Pity,  cryctal  dropa,  fur 
As  by  the  wayside,  beggan  cniTr 

For  I  have  wrapped  me  in  an  a 
pride. 
And  haughty  scorn  is  my  fiuniliarf 
And  if  I  we«'p,  tlie  weakneia  I  dm 
While  shame  and  anger  with  mj 
ings  blend. 

I  do  lament   me!     List!     I  pMg 
draught 
Of  myrrh  and  rue  and  fringing  * 
woo<rs  gall 
To  d<'('p  Oblivion  I — ^Ajre !  the  fteadi 
!augh«Ml ! 
I  live  no  longer,  in  fiHfettiivall! 


THE  rOET*S  ISLR 


All  night  long,  my  soul  b 

Hy  a  <livam  of  other 
Of  a  flowery  isle,  enrhanied, 

Midden  from  the  fleree  Ma*f  nj 
Li;;htfd  by  the  softened 

( >f  a  holy,  harvest 
Aiiil  tht*  sjiint-Iike  eyes. 

Glowing  at  the  mi 


1840>60.] 


REBECCA   S.  NICHOLS. 


299 


In  this  green  and  blooming  island. 

Cluster  sweets  of  every  clime ; 
All  the  charms  of  vale,  and  highland, 

Ripening  with  the  breath  of  Time : 
Fruits  of  mellow  gold,  the  brightest. 

Hang  on  branches,  drooping  low ; 
Biids  of  song,  with  plumes  the  whitest, 

Drifl  like  snow-flakes  to  and  fro. 

Wind-harps  swing  in  every  blossom. 

And  each  viewless,  wandering  air, 
Cradled  on  the  Ocean's  bosom, 

Hastes  to  waken  music  there : 
Grasses  long,  transparent,  waring — 

Mosses,  thick  with  buds  inlaid. 
When  my  soul  repose  is  craving, 

Woo  me  to  their  velvet  shade. 

Round  about,  the  waves  are  flowing, 

Murmuring  wonders  of  the  deep— 
Of  the  coral  forests,  growing 

Where  the  emerald  ivies  creep:  — 
Of  the  lamp-like  jewels,  shining 

In  the  fretted,  sea-washed  halls. 
And  the  rainbow-shells  entwining. 

Garlanding  the  crystal  walls. 

Many  a  song  like  this  they've  sung  me 

In  the  old  enchanted  hours, 
Ere  Life's  serpent-woes  had  stung  me. 

Couched  amid  love's  purple  flowers  I 
Many  a  song,  of  wondrous  sweetness. 

Which  my  heart  can  ne'er  forget. 
Bearing  with  their  dream-like  fleetness. 

My  most  passionate  regret ! 

Well  I  know  the  luster  beaming 

From  those  soft  and  cloudless  skies ; 
Well  the  odors,  faintly  teeming 

With  the  breath  of  Paradise : 
Well  I  know  the  rush  of  feeling 

Overwhelming  heart  and  brain, 
Ajid  the  subtile  rapture  stealing — 

Rapture  which  resembles  pain. 

When  or  where  my  youthful  spirit 
Found  this  sparkling  isle  of  bliss, 


Which  the  angels  might  inherit 
(With  no  stint  of  happiness), 

Fve  no  power  to  tell  in  numbers, 

And  slight  knowledge  where  to  place 

That  which,  haunting  all  my  slumbers, 
No  existence  has  in  space  I 

In  the  fadeless  realms  of  Fairy, — 

In  Imagination's  clime, 
Where  the  banners,  silken,  airy, 

Float  above  the  walls  of  time ; 
There  this  Poet's  Isle  may  wander, 

Like  a  planet  lost  at  birth. 
Till  the  enamored  soul,  grown  fonder — 

Meets  it  midway  from  the  Earth  ! 


LITTLE  NELL. 

Spring,  with  breezes  cool  and  airy, 
Opened  on  a  little  fairy ; 
Ever  restless,  making  merry. 
She,  with  pouting  lips  of  cherry. 
Lisped  the  words  she  could  not  master, 
Vexed  that  she  might  speak  no  faster,—- 
Laughing,  running,  playing,  dancing, 
Mischief  all  her  joys  enhancing ; 
Full  of  baby-mirth  and  glee, 
It  was  a  joyous  sight  to  see 

Sweet  little  KelL 

Summer  came,  the  green  earth's  lover, 
Ripening  the  tufled  clover — 
Calling  down  the  glittering  showers, 
Breathing  on  the  buds  and  flowers : 
Rivaling  young  pleasant  May, 
In  a  generous  holiday! 
Smallest  insects  hummed  a  tune. 
Through  the  blessed  nights  of  June: 
And  the  maiden  sung  her  song, 
Through  the  days  so  bright  and  long — 

Dear  little  Nell 


300 


REBECCA    S.   NICHOLS. 


[IMMIL 


Autumn  ciime !  the  leave:^  were  falling — 
Death,  the  little  one  wad  calling : 
Pale  and  wan  she  grew,  and  weakly, 
lk*aring  all  her  paina  m>  meekly, 
That  to  us,  she  8eenH*d  still  dearer 
As  the  trial-hour  drew  nearer ; 
But  tihe  leil  us,  ho]K'U'ss,  lonely, 
"Watehing  by  her  semblance  only : 
And  a  little  grave  they  made  her. 
In  the  cliun'h-yard,  cold,  they  laid  her — 
Ijiiid  her  softly  down  to  rest, 
With  a  white  rose  on  her  br(*ast— 

Poor  little  NeU  I 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

It  is  the  Indian  Summer  time. 

The  days  of  mist,  and  liaze  and  glory, 

And  un  tlie  leaves  in  hues  sublime. 

The   Autumn   paints    poor    Summer's 
story ; 

"'She  di«Ml  m  beauty,'"  sing  the  hours, 

**Anil  letl  on  earth  a  glorious  shadow ; 
"'She  died  in  beauty,'  like  her  flowers," 

Is  }>aiiited  on  each  wood  and  meadow : — 
She  perished  like  bright  human  hopes, 

That  blaze  awhile  upon  life's  altar ; 
And  o*er  her  green  and  sunny  slopes 

The  plaintive  winds  her  dirges  talter. 

It  is  the  Indian  Summer  time ! 

The  crimson  leaves,  like  coals  are  gleam- 
i»{?. 
The  brightest  tints  of  every  clime 

An*  oVr  our  Western  fonrsts  streaming; 
How  bright  the  hours!  yet  o'er  their  clo>e. 

The  moments  >igh  in  mournful  duty, 
And  nilder  light  around  them  glows, 

Like  h<H-tic*  on  the  cheek  of  beautv. 
Fuir  niai<len,  when  thy  spring  is  o'er, 

Aiifl  all  thy  suuiukt  flowers  are  gath- 
i*nil. 
May  Autiinin  with  a  golden  store, 

U<  place  the  bu<U  so  ijuirkly  withennl ; 


And  bind  unto  thy  heart  this  tmth. 
That  it  may  live  when  desd  thj  rowii 

^  Religion  is  the  light  of  youth. 
And  gilds  life's  Autumii  M  it 


SONG. 

II  AD  I  met  thee,  had  I  met  thee  I 

In  our  life's  exulting  time, 
Wlien  to  dream  of  thee  were  i 

To  love  thee  were  not 
My  heart  liad  borne  the  riper  frniti 

Of  a  riclier,  rarer  clime^ 
Had  I  met  thee — luid  I  loved  tbee 

In  our  life's  exulting  timei 

Had  I  met  thee — ^had  I  loved  thee  t 

Ere  my  life  was  like  the  1^^ 
That  divides  the  fading  amiset 

From  the  gathering  gknns  of  Mfltti 
Then  my  visions  had  been  ftirer. 

And  my  soul  had  known  no  bligy, 
Had  I  met  thee — ^had  I  loved  thcet 

Ere  life's  sun  went  oat  m  night! 


TO-DAY. 

As  into  s|mce,  from  poet'f  propbet  lOBgM^ 
Fall  i*adeiK*ed  thought*, 
the  spheres; 
So  by  Time's  voices  syllabled 

The  hours  drop  down  the  silent  galf  flf 
years ! 

Farewell,  fleet  moments !  whidi  an  atf< 
no  more. 
How  swif\  ye  flew  along  the  diaTsvi?* 
And  now.  transfigured  on  that  dislaat 
Ye  make  the  Present's 
duv! 


REBECCA   S.    NICHOLS. 


301 


which  the  morrows  all  are 

steep  car  that    ne'er  has 

rest, 

wheels  went  drcling  round 

sp    furrows    in    its  rocky 


ag  yesterday  of  cycles  past, 
find  a  self-illumined  page, 
ar  within  a  dreary  vast, 
iarkness  of  a  by-gone  age, 

nan  who  turned  aside  from 

Lsome  lepnosy  within ; 

lis    hands   with    brother's 

ul  sacrifice  to  new -bom  sin. 

•uction  followed  in  his  path ; 

idge  shrieked  and  hid  her 

ize; 

norance,  man's  cruel  wrath 

1  red  guilt  those  early  evil 


rror  past,  the  dawning  came ; 
ous  feet  of  Wisdom  walk 

Itar  bums  a  heavenly  flame, 
joices  in  its  second  birth  I 

ience,  revel  in  the  light ! 
dl  pierce  all  hidden  depths 

)iler,  your  task  unite, 
hall  prove  the  empty  dream 


Is, "  Peace,  Grood-wiil"  from 

lessons  by  the  Meek  One 

3  serried  lines  of  ages  ran, 
Y*s    blessed    liberty    they 


"Peace    and    Good- will P     transcendent 
words  of  power, 
Written  in  stars  upon  the  azure  way ; 
Guides  of  the  year,  and  guardians  of  the 
hour, 
Our  promise  yesterday— our  hope  To- 
day! 


SLEEP. 

I  SAID  to  Sleep, 
That  dreamy-lidded  seraph  of  delight, 
Stealing  from  caves 
Where  muffled  darkness  laves 
The  haunted  shores  of  night — 
Come,  thou,  and  let  us  keep 
The  silences  together ;  on  thy  breast 

This  weary  heart  would  rest, 
The  world's  corroding  cares  forgetting  quite. 

Thy  balmy  breath 
Shall  bathe  each  sense  in  slumber — as  the 
dew, 

Falling  on  flowers. 
Through  all  the  curtained  hours, 
Lends  them  a  fresher  hue. 
And  holds  them  back  from  death — 
So  thy  harmonious  dreams  shall  rain  oo  me. 

In  floods  of  melody. 
Till  all  the  springs  of  life  shall  gush  anew. 

Bear  me  away 
To  that  mist-curtained  and  enchanted  land, 
Where  all  the  isles 
Are  dimpled  deep  with  smiles 
Of  rippling  verdure,  fanned 
By  spicy  gales  the  day. 
Where   stars  illumine  the  blue  concave 
skies, 
As  love-enkindled  eyes 
The  face  of  beauty,  by  Jehovah  planned. 

There,  in  the  bowers 
Thick-lined  with  moss,  and  twinkling  starry 
blooms, 


:io:i 


REBECCA   8.    NICHOLS. 


liM^'A 


O'enwvbod  witli  leaves, 
Tho  arrowy  sunlight  cleaves, 
GildiiifT  the  emerald  glooms, 
Couched  on  the  dew-lipped  flowers, 
Let  me  lie,  lu«tening  to  the  breezy  chimes 

Among  the  gli>tening  limes, 
While  yawning  night  the  heavenly  day  en- 
tombs. 

Snatch  me  from  earth  I 
Shut  out  all  sights  of  horror,  guilt's  quick 
pains. 

The  sufferer's  cries, 
Oppression's  monstrous  lies  I 
Wherewith  it  gilds  its  chains ; 
Tlie  home  defiled — the  hearth. 
Where  innocence  an<l  love  united  dwelt, 

And  low-voiced  pniyer  knelt, 
Till  slid  the  serpent  in  those  fair  domains. 

All  evil  things 
That  emwl  and  trail  their  slime  along  the 
leaves 

And  blooms  of  life — 
The  scorns,  the  hates,  the  strife 
For  I  lower,  the  mihlew<Ml  sheaves, 
T  'n wholesome  contact, — stings 
That  hide  their  venom  'neath  a  mocking 
smile. 
Distilling  death  the  while, 
Like  j»oi.>onous  va^iors  on  the  starry  eves. 

The  day  is  long- 
How  long,  O  God !   when  ignorance  and 
sin 

In  its  fair  li;iht 
Plan  (IimhIs  of  d;irk«'st  night — 
Wht-n  virr  and  fullv  win 
Thf  plaudits  of  the  throng, 
Wliili*  Inwlv  worth  and  virtui'  >hrink  n>ide 

Fn»m  bloated,  l^^ia-ti'd  prid*-, 
>\  iio    i»a\(->    the    >toiiv    wav    fur    humiui 
wn>n;r  I 

Tin'  ilay  \<  l<»n;r ! 
Wli'H  bln-»h  it>  n><.i'ii  in  tho  orient  skies. 


The  world  awnken ! 
And  as  the  morning  breakii 
Thousands  of  tearful  eyei» 
Tliat  weep  misfortune's  wrong; 
Lift  up  their  piteous  oiIm  to 

Despairing  of  his  lo%'e. 
Who  notes  the  humble  apurvw 
dies. 


■ban, 
wka  ii 


Then,  fitMn  niUTOw  streel 
And  dingy  alley — from  the  deepened  wall 
Of  loathsome  dens. 
Fouler  than  green-webbed  ftni 
The  human  earth-worm  cnarb  I 
Dragging  his  listlesa  feet 
Through  the  broad  thoronghfrrai  ef  U» 
ing  day, 
Ilis  pidm  outstretched  alwaj 
For  pity's  scanty  mite  that  eoUlf  Uk 

For  all  who  earn 
By  sweat  an<l  pain,  their 
bread 

The  day  is  long  I 
Lalxir  unto  the  strong. 
The  well,  the  chid,  the  fed, 
I^  blesM^l ;  the  weak  and 
Shrink  fit>m   the  toil;   their 
name. 
Allied  to  grief  and  shame, 
Could  half  express  the  height,  and  iefk 
and  dread. 

Deal  kindly.  Sleep ! 
With  thesi'  forsaken  once    diy  vp  thar 
tears. 

Lft  sw«'et  repose 
Lap  th«*m  fn>m  hungry  woee 
Whirh  W'M  on  their  young  jean! 
Throii;jli  thy  dear  watchea  keep 
Till'  ^rini.  devouring  phantom  fioB  d? 
brra-it. 
That  all  thf  tides  of  rent 

May  tiow  in  lulling  calmneae  o'er  tldr 

fvar<. 


GEORGE  W.  CUTTER. 


>R6E  Washington  Cutter  was  bom  in  Kentucky,  we  believe,  though  pre- 
vrhere  or  when,  we  have  been  unable  to  ascertiun.  Nor,  though  his  life  has 
yentful,  have  we  found  any  source  of  facts  and  figures  from  which  to  make  it 
significant  on  paper.  The  reader  must  therefore  content  himself  with  what 
information  we  can  give  him.  Mr.  Cutter  appears  to  be  about  forty-five  years 
large,  well  proportioned,  and  imposing,  and  has  a  full,  fiush  countenance,  whose 
me  expression  the  small-pox,  doing  its  worst,  has  but  httle  impaired.  He  is  a 
by  profession,  and  was  at  one  time  a  member  of  the  Indiana  Legislature.  But 
le  appearance  of  the  man  and  the  spirit  of  his  poetry  evince  too  strong  a  tem- 
mi  for  the  tame,  "even  tenor''  of  a  civilian's  life;  and  accordingly,  when  the 
m  war  broke  out,  he  joined  the  army  as  a  Captain  of  volunteers,  and  served  a 
tt  campaign ;  a  spirited  reminiscence  of  which  he  has  given  us  in  the  poem  of 
a  Vista,"  which  he  is  said  to  have  written  on  the  field  after  the  battle.  Mr. 
has  been  twice  married ;  first  to  Mrs.  Alexander  Drake  the  actress ; '  and  next 
ilea,"  whose  portrait  is  the  frontispiece  of  his  last  volume.  We  believe  he  is 
ent  a  member  of  the  Washington  bar. 

volume  entitled  "Poems,  National  and  Patriotic,"  published  in  1857,  at  Phil- 
ia,  contains  perhaps  all  the  poems  that  Mr.  Cutter  has  thought  worthy  of  pres- 
n,  though  there  are  extant  two  other  previous  collections  of  his  writings.  This 
X)k  of  two  hundred  and  seventy-nine  pages,  consisting  of  quite  a  lengthy  pre- 
d  sixty-nine  poems,  of  which  latter,  "The  Captive"  is  first  in  order  and  extent, 
t  first  in  rank,  by  any  means.  It  is  an  Indian  poem,  and,  like  most  Indian 
is  very  un-Indian  indeed — ^making  Tecumseh,  the  secretive  and  reticent  savage, 
ige  after  page  of  heavy  tragedy,  as  though  he  had  learned  the  whole  civilized 
how  not  to  say  it,  Tecumseh  shows  himself  versed,  too,  in  ancient  mythology, 
le  says, 

*'A\\  goddess— like  the  fabled  birth 
Of  Pallas  from  the  brain!" 

"  When  softly  rose  the  Qneen  of  Love 
All  glowing  from  the  seal  " 

iic  Indian  was  Tecumseh,  truly — ^aye,  and  a  traveled  Indian,  forsooth ;  else  how 

he  fancy  that 

"  The  moon  was  piled  like  a  broken  vrreath 
Of  snow  on  an  Alp  of  cloud  T  " 

by  these  little  phenomena  of  Tecumseh  in  "The  Captive,"  we  are  led  at  once 

fact  that  Mr.  Cutter  is  not  a  poet  of  art,  but  a  poet  bom.     It  is  not  his  business, 

)re  than  it  is  the  bobolink's,  to  construct  sweet  tones  into  consistent  tunes.    The 

(303) 


304  GKORGK    W.    CUTTER.  [tMi 

tones  may  come  of  themselves,  und  link  themselves  together,  and  sing  Umiuclva 
ihvy  will ;  but  they  get  little  help  from  Mr.  Cutter,  tliat  is  clear.  Tlie  poetic  »] 
with  whieh  he  is  |)osi(esiMHl,  taken  him  and  does  with  him  whalMever  it  wilL  lle^ 
more  ])oetry  than  he  writes.  Now  and  then  the  pent  lightning  within  him  fla 
forth  full  into  the  dark  of  language,  and  dazzles  all ;  but  for  the  mo8t  put  he  har 
half  told  himself,  because  he  lias  newr  studied  expression.  Poetry  aaj  be  bar 
U  true ;  but  it  is  not  bom  into  language :  expression  is  an  achievemeat  of  higk 
wherein  **  there  is  no  exeellence  without  great  labor.**  And,  from  the  manifanii 
of  genius  in  Mr.  Cutter's  poems,  tliere  can  be  no  doubt  that,  had  he  palienllj 
assiduously  applied  this  laI>or,  America  could  have  boasted  a  real,  lire  Ijric  | 
**  Tht*  Song  of  Steum,**  p<.*nn(^  in  an  hour  of  su<*h  high  inspiration  as  tomeliinfis  tt 
with  a  power  of  miracles,  is,  we  think,  a  fair  indication  of  his  capadtj.  Ami 
opinion  is  corroborated  by  ''The  Song  of  Lightning,**  and  by  passages  all  ihia^ 
writings — horizon-fluslies  of  tliat  lightning  which  wanted  but  the  fit  madinm  af 
guage  in  order  to  illumine  and  electrify  the  world.  Many  of  these  paangea  are  a^ 
as  far  as  they  go,  to  ^The  Song  of  Steam,"  but  they  do  not  go  fiir;  thej  are  bM 
tained ;  the  divine  element  of  patience  is  not  in  them — the  principle  ^ 
wait.** 

^  Tlie  Song  of  Steam  **  has  been  as  popular  perhaps  as  any  other  lyric  of  the  < 
and  it  will  be  (lopular  as  long  as  stt^am  itM.*lf  is  po|Milar.  It  is  the  whole  nU 
|K)wer  of  tliat  element  wrouglit  out  into  thunderous  verse.  Sublinuty,  ii 
Cutter*s  forte,  llenct*.  war  and  the  glorious  fatherland  are  his  principal 
is  tilt*  subtile  electricity  of  poetry  and  the  hot  energy  of  battle  mingling  ia  hii  fi 
He  loves,  in  his  own  language,  to  be 

**Whi'r«'  miiHkcts  ring  and  Habnv  flash 

And  ruuiid  tbe  mingling sqnadroDH  reel!'' 

For,  he  says. 


"  Thf're  i^  rtem  pl(*viirc  In  the  phuck  of 
The  wbci'liiig  M|UMln>n  and  thi*  buyonetV  jar, 
Wht'H  murtial  liiuft  thi.-ir  gluumiug  frunls  t'niai)^ 
And  th<'  t'urth  twU  U*n(*ath  their  th'ty  chargi*!^ 

And  let  us  cite  a  few  oth(;r  examples  of  Mr.  Cutter*s  sublimity : 

I  "And  they  shot>k  the  1)ltu.'k  and  starlcM  air 

With  a  i« ild  aiui  ft-arlul  yell !  *' 

I 


*•  Wo'll  vii'W  th«'  ^Httcfinf;  ici'UTjr  rcdl 
I  \Vh«'n>  tho  i)C«>an  w  fn»2**n  white. 

j  Ah  wi*  Kluekt'n  Kiil  at  thi*  rtiini«t<K  p<ile 

I  ]3y  the  ^lure  uf  th«>  northern  lij^'ht/* 


"And  wh"ii  thi*  lati-Mt  tnimp  of  Gini, 
]>iv<ti.l\iti^  dt*ath*H  iny^ti-riiMi>  t-hain, 
i>h:ill  n-tiil  the  niarldi-  und  thi-  mnI. 
Tu  f:ivi'  t-ach  foriD  itn  buul  a>;ain ; 


so.] 


GEORGE   W.   CUTTER. 


305 


There's  not  withio  this  broad  domain 
A  fiiDgle  rood  of  sea  or  earth, 

Bat,  dyed  with  many  a  murderer's  stain, 
Will  give  a  slaoghtered  Indian  birth  I " 


<* Father  of  light,  and  life,  and  form! 
Who  dwelt  before  the  birth  of  time, 
When  chaos,  like  a  mighty  storm, 
Starless  and  boundless,  rolled  sublime." 

for  a  striking  instance  of  sustained  grandeur,  see  the  poem  ^^Inyocation."     But 

;ed  not  multiply  citations ;  the  reader  will  at  once  see  the  predominance  of  this 

•nt  in  all  Mr.  Cutter's  poems. 

ere  is  another  trait  closely  allied  to  genuine  sublimity,  which  distinguishes  most 

r.  Cutter's  poetry,  and  that  is  perspicuity :    you  can  see  through  it  and  tell  what 

driving  at     Now,  tliis  is  a  great  excellence,  and  a  rare  excellence,  too.     The 

[^ndental,  the  mystic  prettytudes  of  the  modem  school  have  not  affected  him ; 

rennysonophobia  has  not  reached  his  blood  at  all.     He  has  gone  to  Bums,  and 

0,  and  Dante,  and  the  Grand  Old  Masters.     Though  his  muse  is  unequal — 

imes  prosy — ^yet  he  is  always  intelligible ;  never  talks  in  riddles  like  an  insane 

His  dreamy  mystery  of  delicious  words,  so  prevalent  in  all  latter-day  poetry, 

g  much  to  signify  nothing,  has  no  adaptation  to  Mr.  Cutter's  genius :   it  would 

emasculated  his  sublimity  entirely.     A  school  of  poetry  which  is  all  expression, 

id  not,  as  we  have  said,  the  patience  to  excel  in. 

:xt  to  "The  Song  of  Steam,"  which  is  Mr.  Cutter's  masterpiece,  his  best  poem 

rhe  Song  of  Lightning,"  composed  in  the  same  vein.     Indeed,  there  is  little  to 

e  between  the  two ;  and  if  the  latter  had  been  pubhshed  first,  it  is  doubt^  which 

i  have  attained  the  greater  popularity. 

]  Pluribus  Unum,"  another  of  Mr,  Cutter's  most  popular  poems,  shows  that,  if 

kd  given  the  study  and  labor  he  ought,  he  might  have  produced  us  the  one  great 

lal  song  which  we  yet  lack. 

\  Cutter  is  the  most  intensely  patriotic  poet  we  have.     The  poem  "Never" 

t  be  profitably  read  and  reread  by  the  political  madmen  of  tliese  times.     And  as 

er  lessons   in   the   same  doctrine,   "Washington's   Birthday,"  and  "Grod  and 

ty." 

It  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Cutter  is  all  patriot  and  warrior ;  no,  to  be 

he  must  be  lover,  too.     These  two  stanzas  show  what  our  poet  feels  about  that 

ct: 

**  Who  hath  not  knelt  at  beauty's  fbot, 
And  felt  the  very  air  more  mild. 
The  sky  more  soft,  the  earth  more  sweet, 
When  woman  sighed — when  woman  smiled  ? 

**  Who  hath  not  felt  love's  sway  sublime, 
Till  joy  could  only  speak  in  tears — 
And  tasted,  in  a  breath  of  time. 
The  rapture  of  a  thousand  years?" 


20 


3Ut> 


GKOKGK    W.    CUTTKK. 


[1M»^ 


And  ibr  further  limitd  of  the  warrior-poet's  heart,  read  '^Love's  R^mqnftranftt*  *1 
Fuiiny  Lenioine,"  and  ^To  Althea." 


» 


On  the  whole,  it  may  he  concluded,  that  Mr.  Cutter  has  the  siiffidencj,  but  mi  d 
cifuiency,  of  a  great  poet.  The  sufDeiency  i^  of  naturp,  bat  the  eiBciaicyt  of  v 
and  while  the  poet  who,  like  Mr.  Cutter,  though  instinct  with  the  one,  u  impatnK 
the  other,  may,  in  felicitous  moments,  write  certain  immortal  vene,  jei  the  oh 
which  outhists  the  centuries — the  name  whose  letters  do  not  fall  back  into  ike  alpk 
U't  for  thousands  of  years — must  luive  something  more  than  a  mere  vcne  or  two  i 
Fust^iin  it, — must  have  magnified  itself  by  patience,  and  apotheosized  iUelf  bj  il 
omnipotence  of  toiL 


SONG  OF  STEA3L 

Harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands ; 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein : 
For  I  scorn  the  ])ower  of  your  puny  hands. 

As  the  tempest  sconis  a  chain. 
How  I  laughed  as  I  lay  i*onccard  from  sight 

For  many  a  countless  hour, 
At  the  childish  boast  of  humim  might, 

And  the  pride  of  human  power. 

When  I  saw  an  army  upon  the  land, 

A  navy  u{)on  the  sens. 
Creeping  along,  a  snail-like  hand, 

( )r  waiting  the  way wanl  bn»eze ; 
'When  1  marked  the  peasant  faintly  reel 

With  the  toil  wliich  he  daily  Iwre, 
As  he  feebly  turiKHl  the  tanly  wheel, 

Or  lugged  at  the  weary  oar; 

When  I  measuri'd  the  ] suiting  courser's 
!»|)«'e4l, 

TIh'  llijrht  of  the  carrier  dove, 
A<  they  h(in*  the  law  n  kinjr  deereed, 

Or  th«*  lines  of  inipsitient  K»ve, 
I  (oiiM  not  hut  think  how  the  world  would 

fiel, 

A^  iln  -«•  Wire  out^itrippM  afar, 
W  ill  II  1  .-hdiiM  l»e  hoiiiid  to  the  rushing 

keel. 

Or  ehiuiiM  to  the  Mying  car. 


Ha !  ha !  ha !  they  foond  me  al  ImC; 

They  uivited  me  forth  at  length; 
And  I  rushed  to  my  throne  wiik  a 
blast, 

And  laugiied  in  my  iron  •treoftk 
O  then  ye  saw  a  wondrous  rhaiyi 

On  the  earth  and  the  ooeaa  wid^ 
Where  now  my  fiery  armies  ranges 

Nor  wait  for  wind  or 


Hurra !  hurra !  the  waters  o*er 

The  mountain's  steep  decline ; 
Time — simce — have  yielded  to  mj  pom 

The  world !  the  world  is  mine ! 
The  rivers  the  sun  hath  earliest  bleil« 

Or  tha<e  where  his  beams  decline; 
The  giant  stn'ams  of  tlie  qnccnlj  wt^ 

Or  the  orient  floods  dirine ! 

The  ocean  (mles  where'er  I  sweep 

I  hear  my  stn'Ugih  rejoice; 
And  the  mon^teri  of  the  briny  desp 

Ci»wer,  trembling,  at  my  voice. 
I  carry  the  wealth  and  the  loid  of  csrik 

The  thought.-  of  hi>  gnd-ltke  mind; 
The  mind  luiz^  atler  my  going  fortk. 

The  li>!htnii>g  is  \ci\  behind. 

In  the  lijirk^mie  depths  of  ike  fii'holw 
mine. 
My  tii-ele-t.^  arm  doth  play; 


1840-60.] 


GEORGE  W.   CUTTER. 


307 


Where  the  rocks  never  saw  the  sun  decline, 
Or  the  dawn  of  the  glorious  day, 

I  hring  earth's  glittering  jewels  up 
From  the  hidden  caves  helow, 

And  I  make  the  fountain's  granite  cup 
With  a  crystal  gush  o'erflow. 

I  hlow  the  hellows,  I  forge  the  steel. 

In  all  the  shops  of  trade ; 
I  hammer  the  ore  and  turn  the  wheel 

Where  my  arms  of  strength  are  made ; 
I  manage  the  furnace,  the  mill,  the  mint ; 

I  cany,  I  spin,*I  weave. 
And  all  my  doings  I  put  into  print, 

On  every  Saturday  eve. 

Fve  no  muscle  to  weary,  no  breast  to  decay. 

No  bones  to  be  ^  laid  on  the  shelf," 
And  soon  I  intend  you  may  ^go  and  play," 

While  I  manage  this  world  myself. 
But  harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands, 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein ; 
For  I  scorn  the  power  of  your  puny  hands. 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 


NEVERI  NEVERl* 

Ton  ask  me  when  Fd  rend  the  scroll 

Our  fathers'  names  are  written  o'er ; 
When  I  would  see  our  flag  unroll 

Its  mingled  stars  and  stripes  no  more; 
When  with  a  worse  than  felon  hand 

Or  felon  counsel,  I  would  sever 
The  Union  of  this  glorious  land ; 

I  answer:  Never — never — ^neverl 

Think  ye  that  I  could  brook  to  see 
The  banner  I  have  loved  so  long, 

Borne  piecemeal  o*er  the  distant  sea ; 
Tom,  trampled  by  a  frenzied  throng ; 

*  '*  I  may  be  askod.  as  I  hare  b««n  a«ked,  when  I  am  for 
the  <li8m>lution  of  the  Uni  n?  I  answer:  KeTvr— iMTer — 
XteTer! "— Uem&t  Clat,  United  States  Senate. 


Divided,  measured,  parcel'd  out ; 

Tamely  surrendered  up  lor  evetf 
To  gratify  a  soulless  route 

Of  traitors  ?    Never — ^never — never  • 

Give  up  this  land  to  lawless  might, 

To  selfish  fraud  and  villain  sway ; 
Obscure  those  hopes  with  endless  night 

That  now  are  rising  like  the  day ; 
Write  one  more  page  of  burning  shame. 

To  prove  the  useless,  vain  endeavor 
Our  race  from  ruin  to  reclaim, 

And  close  the  volume?    Never — never! 

On  yonder  lone  and  lovely  steep. 

The  sculptor's  art,  the  builder's  power, 
A  landmark  o'er  the  soldier's  sleep. 

Have  rear'd  a  lofly  funeral  tower ; 
There  it  wiU  stand  until  the  river 

That  rolls  beneath  shall  cease  to  flow. 
Aye,  till  that  hill  itself  shall  quiver 

With  nature's  last  convulsive  throe. 

Upon  that  column's  marble  base, 

That  shaft  that  soars  into  the  sky. 
There  still  is  room  enough  to  trace 

The  countless  millions  yet  to  die ! 
And  I  would  cover  all  its  height 

Ajid  breadth,  before  that  hour  of  shame, 
Till  space  should  fail  whereon  to  write 

Even  the  initials  of  a  name. 

Dissolve  the  Union !  mar,  remove 

The  last  asylum  that  is  known. 
Where  patriots  find  a  brother's  love. 

And  truth  may  shelter  from  a  throne  I 
Give  up  the  hopes  of  high  renown. 

The  legacy  our  fathers  will'd  I 
Tear  our  victorious  eagles  down 

Before  their  mission  is  fulfilled  I 

Dissolve  the  Union — while  the  earth 

Has  yet  a  tyrant  to  be  slain  I 
Destroy  our  freedom  in  its  birth. 

And  give  the  world  to  bonds  again ! 


308 


GEORGE    Vr.   CUTTEK. 


[lll»« 


Dissolve  the  Union !     God  of  Heaven  I 
We  know  too  well  how  much  it  cost : 

A  million  bowms  shall  be  riven 
Before  one  golden  link  is  lost. 

Nay,  spread  alofl  our  banner  folds 

Iligli  as  the  heavens  they  re.semble, 
That  every  race  this  planet  holds 

Beneath  their  shadow  may  assemble, 
And  with  the  rainbow's  dazzling  pride 

Or  clouds  that  bum  along  the  tikies, 
In.^'ribed  upon  its  margin  wide, 

Hope,  Freedom,  Union,  Compromise. 


E  PLURIBU8  UNUM. 

Tno'  many  and  bright  are  tlie  stars  that 

appear 

In  that  flag,  by  our  country  unfurlM ; 

And  the  8tri|>eri  that  ore  swelling  in  majesty 

there 

Like  a  rainbow  adorning  the  world ; 

Their  light  is  an?ulli<.Hl,  as  tho!<e  in  the  sky, 

By  a  deed  that  our  fathers  have  done  ; 
And  they're  leagued  in  as  true  and  as  holy 
a  tie, 
In  their  motto  of  "Many  in  one." 

From  the  hour  when  those  patriots  fear- 

I(*8sly  dung 
That  banner  of  starlight  abroad, 
Ever  true  to  themselves,  to  that  motto  they 

clung 

As  they  clung  to  the  promise  of  God : 
By  the  bayonet  tnu.vd  at  the  midnight  of 

war. 

On  tlie  fields  where  our  glory  was  won, 

< )  pt^rish  the  heart  or  the  hand  tluit  would 

mar 

Our  motto  of  "  Many  in  one." 

Mid  llie  smoke  of  the  contest — the  can- 
nonV  deep  roar 
How  oi\  it  hit^  gathen.*d  renown ; 


While  those  stan  were  refladcd  in  im 
of  gore. 
When  the  Ctom  mnd  the  lAomwtati&m 
And  tho'  few  were  the  lights  hi  the  gbfl 
of  that  hour. 
Yet  the  hearts  that  were  Hiikhif  \4m 
Had  God  for  their  bulwai^  aiid  tradi  h 
their  power, 
And  they  stopp'd  not  to  nambcr  tkefiv 

From  where  our  Green   Mcwinteii  Isp 
blend  with  the  sky, 
And  the  giant  Sl  La#renoe  ia  leflel 
To  the  waves  where  the  b«hiiy  Heufcriic 
lie. 
Like  the  dream  of  mme  prophet  of  «li 
They  conquered ;  and  dyings  heqMtfhIi  I 
our  care. 
Not  this  boundlew  doinininii 
But  that  banner  where  loreUnea 
the  air. 
And  their  motto  of  ^Maoy  n  eMkT 

We  are  **Many  in  one**  whik  thcfvgii 
ters  a  star 
In  the  blue  of  the  heaTew^  above; 
And  tyrants  shall  quail  mid  their  duuy 
afar. 
When  they  gaze  on  that  moCio  ef  hn. 
It  shall  gleam  o*er  tlie  sen,  mid  the  boh 
of  the  storm^ 
Over  tempest  and  battle  and 
And  flame  miiere  our  gons  with  ihnr 
der  grow  warm, 
*Neath  the  blood  on  the  alippeiy 


■  The  oppress*d  of  the  earth  to  dnt 
ard  shall  11  v, 
Wherever  iL<  folds  shall  he  Ufnai; 
And  the  exile  shall  \'i  i  I'li  liiiuiwnMtiif  J] 

Where  its  stars  shall  float 
And  tho^t*  stars  ^hall  increase  tiD  the 
nes-i  of  time 
Its  niillitHw  f»f  cycles  haa 

Till  the  world  shall  have 
siun  iiublime. 
And  the  nations  of  eaith  ihaDtt 


GEORGE    W.    CUTTER. 


309 


le  old  AllegbaDj  may  tower  to 

)  Father  of  waters  divide, 
of  our  destiny  cannot  be  riven 
le  truth  of  those  words  shall  abide. 
let  them  glow  on  each  helmet 
rand, 

:  blood  like  our  rivers  should  run : 
we  may  in  our  own  native  land, 
rest  of  the  world  we  are  one  I 

rith  our  flag !  Let  it  stream  on 
ir! 

p  fathers  are  cold  in  their  graves, 
hands  that  could  strike — they 
ouls  that  could  dare — 
ir  sons  were  not  bom  to  be  slaves, 
ith  that  banner!  Where'er  it 
call, 

lions  shall  rally  around ; 
ion  of  freemen  that  moment  shall 

is  stars  shall  be  traiFd  on  the 
id. 


BUENA  VISTA. 

Vista  I  thou  hast  smil'd 
the  shores  of  orient  waves, 
V  thou  art  a  dreary  wild — 
irful  waste  of  graves, 
jkened  is  the  verdure  there 
re  fell  the  purple  rain ; 
iture  sniffs  the  tainted  air, 
wolf  howls  o'er  the  slain. 

lere  thy  hacienda  rose, 

1st  the  linden  leaves, 

ary  pilgrim  sought  repose 

ath  its  friendly  eaves  ; 

the  aloe  and  the  oninge  bloom 

fragrance  filled  the  air. 
How  and  thy  cypress  gloom 

wave  in  silence  there. 


No  more  that  hospitable  grove 

In  all  thy  vale  is  found ; 
No  voice  but  of  the  mourning  dove, 

Now  breaks  the  silence  round ; 
The  very  roof-tree  of  the  hall 

Is  level  with  the  hearth ; 
The  fragments  of  thy  chapel  wall 

Are  strewed  upon  the  earth. 

We  saw  thee  when  the  morning  spread 

Her  purple  wings  on  high — 
Beheld  at  dawn  thy  mountains  dread. 

Like  clouds  against  the  sky ; 
And  we  marked  thy  fairy  meadows, 

And  thy  streamlet's  silver  sheen, 
Beneath  their  lofly  shadows, 

Along  the  dark  ravine. 

But  ah  I  we  saw  another  hue 

Spread  o'er  thy  lordly  dell. 
When  cannon  shook  thy  sky  of  blue. 

And  war's  dread  lightning  fell ; 
When  darkness  clotlied  the  morning  ray, 

And  dimmed  thy  mountains  high ; 
When  the  fire  that  kindled  up  the  day 

Went  out  upon  the  sky. 

Upon  their  arms  that  weary  night 

Our  soldiery  had  lain. 
And  many  dreamed  those  visions  bright 

They  ne'er  shall  dream  again : 
Of  maidens  of  the  snowy  brow, 

Of  sisters  pale  with  care. 
Of  wives  who  for  our  safety  bow 

Their  loveliness  in  prayer ; 

Of  venerable  sires,  who  stand 

Beneath  the  cares  of  state ; 
The  mothers  of  our  native  land; 

Our  children's  artless  prate : 
Of  quiet  vales,  of  sacred  domes. 

Far  o'er  the  heaving  sea ; 
The  cheerfnl  hearts,  the  happy  homes, 

Our  own  proud  land,  of  thee ! 

But  sudden  on  each  drowsy  ear. 
O'er  thy  dark  caverns  roll'd 


310 


GEORGE    W.  CUTTER. 


[IMM 


Tlie  notes  of  doath  to  craven  fear — 

Tlie  music  of  the  bold. 
The  foe  !  the  foo  !  along  thy  pass, 

His  locust  horde  appears ; 
We  Haw  the  sheen  of  his  cuirass-^ 

The  glitter  of  hL«  speari*. 

As  stars  that  stud  the  milky  way, 

His  glittering  lances  shine  ; 
And  the  banners  of  his  long  array, 

Were  as  the  sun's  dt*cline. 
The  sky  gn;w  darker  o'er  them, 

And  murmured  low  and  dread; 
And  tlie  solid  earth  before  them. 

Was  clouds  beneath  their  tread. 

We  gazed  upon  the  iris  streams — 

The  stars,  whose  diamond  ray 
Upon  our  Union  banner  beams — 

81udl  they  come  down  to-day  ? 
No !  by  our  country's  Kacred  call  1 

No !  by  thy  graceful  waves ! 
No !  no  I  thy  stars  shall  never  fall 

But  on  our  shroudless  graves ! 

Then  with  one  fearful,  wild  hurra, 

The  solemn  hills  ring  out; 
And  Echo,  from  her  caves  afar, 

Sent  back  the  startling  shout : 
The  foe  recoiled,  his  glittering  ranks 

0't*r  all  that  valo  were  bright. 
Like  a  stream  that  floods  its  lofty  banks 

Beneath  the  starry  night 

Tliey  halt,  and  forth  on  foaming  steeds. 

And  banners  flowing  white ; 
St.  Ana's  henild  forwiinl  speeds 

A  |>arley  to  invit<» : 
^Our  Gene  nil,  in  his  meekness 

And  mercy,  hath  doigned, 
In  pity  of  your  wrakness. 

To  treat  you  very  kind. 

*'  Ilf  knows  how  ftM'lilr  is  voiir  stn^ngth — 

How  |M)orly  annrd  yr  an*; 
*Tis  (MTtain  vt»  must  vifM  at  Ifnj^th, 

Or  madly  jH'ri.sh  there ! 


To  end  at  once  your  fooliih  kopa, 
To  make  this  staiemenl  dear, 

Know  that  three  thousand 
Are  posted  in  jrour 


**  He  hath  four  and  twenty 

And  twenty  thousand 
To  pour  the  kiva  tide  of 

Along  this  narrow  ^en : 
Then  yield  ye,  prisonen  of  hk 

And  s])are  the  loss  of  blood. 
Or  he'll  sweep  you  from  before  hit  fce 

As  foam  before  the  Bood." 

^  Here,  May,  go  thou  inTile  hia; 

Ye  need  not  tarry  long; 
Tell  him  that  I  would  llghl  hia 

Were  he  fifty  times  as  ■tnm^" 
Thus  answered  Rough  and  Reaif ; 

One  hurra  rent  the  sky  I 
And  our  ranks  grew  firm  and  ileaif 

Beneath  his  eagle  eye. 

Then  came  their  cymlmTs  ringiBg  da 

Shrill  flfe,  and  rolling  dmm ; 
The  opening  cannon's  fhiiniVr'ciiifc. 

The  wildly  n-nding  bomb; 
Up  rose  their  sable  flag,  and  omI 

Its  stain  u|)on  the  brfsttie. 
Like  that  which  from  the  rover^t  ■■! 

Sheds  terror  o'er  the 


We  saw  it«  and  we  inly 

Bv  Ilim  in  whom  we 
Though  nnl  with  our  last  drop  ef  ^ 

To  trail  it  in  the  dnsl. 
How  well  that  promise  has  beea  hf^ 

Ye  who  would  seek  to  know, 
Go  ask  the  kindred  who  have  wtf^ 

O'er  trampled 


The  trumpet  sounds ;  the  Iba 
Along  the  mountain  cn^; 

Then  bur->t  thy  earthquake, 
And  n tared  thy  thundert 


1840^0.]                                      GEORGE   W.  CUTTER.                                            311 

Then  swift  thy  wheels,  O'Brien,  came 

As  o*er  the  crackling  forest  spread 

Along  the  deep  defile ; 

Volcanic  fires  of  old, 

And  soon  before  their  lightning  flame 

With  flaming  steel  and  bounding  tread, 

Lay  many  a  ghastly  pile ! 

Our  ranks  upon  them  roll'd. 

Then  Lincoln  of  the  fiery  glance, 

Then  deeper  still  the  cannon  peal'd, 

Bestrode  his  matchless  steed  ; 

And  flamed  the  musketry ; 

And  May,  who  ever  fells  a  lance 

And  redder  blushed  the  crimson  field, 

As  lightning  fells  a  reed ; 

And  darker  grew  the  day ; 

And  veteran  Wool  the  heady,  fight 

But  soon  before  our  fiery  check 

As  nobly  did  sustain, 

The  iron  storm  rolled  back, 

Afl  if  the  glow  of  Queenstown  Height 

And  left,  0  God !  a  mournful  wreck 

Had  fired  his  soul  again. 

Along  its  fearful  track  I 

There  Marshall  urged  his  foaming  steeds, 

With  brows  in  death  more  gloomy, 

With  spur  and  flowing  rein —    . 

Amidst  the  sanguine  dews, 

And  many  a  lancer  flying  bleeds, 

Lay  the  Guards  of  Montezuma, 

And  many  bite  the  plain  ; 

And  the  Knights  of  Vera  Cruz ; 

And  there  brave  Mississippi  stands 

And  many  a  cloven  helmet, 

Amidst  the  sheeted  flame, 

And  shattered  spear  around, 

And  rapid  fall  their  ruthless  bands, 

And  drum,  and  crimsoned  bayonet, 

Before  her  deadly  aim. 

And  banner,  strewed  the  ground. 

The  cloud  that  threatened  in  the  sky, 

Still  our  standard  in  its  glory 

Has  burst  upon  the  plain — 

Waved  o'er  the  sulphur  storm; 

And  channels,  that  so  late  were  dry. 

But  'neath  it,  stiff*  and  gory. 

Are  swollen,  but  not  with  rain ; 

Lay  many  a  noble  form. 

Young  Indiana  holds  the  height. 

Mingled  in  death's  cold  embrace 

Brave  Illinois  has  charged. 

There  friend  and  foe  appears. 

And  Arkansas  within  the  flght 

While  o'er  them  bends  full  many  a  face 

Her  glory  has  enlarged. 

That  streams  with  burning  tears. 

Still  downward  from  the  dizzy  height, 

Oh  God  !  who  could  but  weep  to  see 

Tlieir  gleaming  masses  reel. 

On  the  red  and  trampled  lawn 

A  Niagara  in  resistless  might — 

Thy  form,  impetuous,  brave  McKee, 

An  avalanche  of  steel ; 

And  thine,  heroic  Vaughn, 

Still  on  their  mighty  columns  move, 

As  gathered  up  our  little  bands 

The  plain  is  covered  o*er — 

Their  comrades  where  they  fell. 

The  sky  is  black  with  clouds  above, 

And  bore  along,  with  gory  hands, 

The  earth  is  red  with  gore. 

A  Lincoln,  Hardin,  Yell  I 

Then  gleamed  aloft  thy  polished  brand. 

And  oh !  what  language  can  impart 

0  loved  and  lost  McKee ! 

The  sorrow  of  that  day — 

And  we  heard  thy  steady,  clear  command. 

The  grief  that  wrung  each  manly  heart 

"Kentucky,  charge  with  me!" 

For  thee,  young  Henry  Clay ! 

312 


GEORGE   W.  CUTTER. 


[MM 


The  mcmoiy  of  that  glorious  strife 

Will  live  in  future  years, 
To  us  the  darkest  page  of  lifo^ 

The  deepest  source  of  tears. 

We  saw  thee  when  the  countless  horde 

Closed  round  thee  from  afar, 
And  through  tlie  smoke  thj  gleaming 
sword 

Became  our  guiding  star ; 
We  followed  till  before  their  might 

Our  feeble  ranks  were  riven ; 
Even  then  thj  face  was  beaming  bright 

As  if  'twere  lit  from  heaven. 

We  saw  their  steel  above  thy  head 

Flash  like  a  radiant  crown ; 
Ami,  like  a  bolt  by  lightning  sped, 

Thy  saber  cleave  tliem  down ; 
And  where  the  fiery  tempest  poured 

Thy  hand  still  waved  us  on ; 
There  still  thy  trumpet  voice  was  heard; 

There  still  tliy  sword  was  drawn. 

And  when  the  shout  of  victory 

Rang  in  thy  marrior  ears, 
Twas  a  triumph  to  the  foe  to  see 

Thy  blood  upon  their  spears  ; 
But  a  mournful  shade  came  back  again 

U|)on  their  features  wild, 
To  see  the  gory  heaps  of  sh&in 

Thy  single  arm  had  piled. 

O  Bnena  Vista !  when  the  sun 

Stft  o*er  the  battle  cloud, 
Th«'  sulpiiur  vapors,  dark  and  dun, 

r^iv  o*er  tht'c  like  a  shroud ; 
And  tlie  wounded  and  the  dying 

0*t*r  all  thy  hillb  were  stii'wn. 
And  the  rt*d  patli  of  the  riving 

Wa<*  lighted  by  the  moon. 


THE 

SouLof  the  world!  the  IVbhI  the  n«H 

Wliat  m-onden  hasi  thoo  wni^gk! 
Thou  rainbow  realm  of  mental  Um; 

Thou  starry  sky  of  thonglil! 
As  dew  unto  the  thirsty  flowen; 

As  the  blessed  light  of  heavca ; 
And  widely  as  the  summer  ihcwrei^ 

Thy  silent  akl  is  given. 

Yet  canst  thou  flame  upon  the  cuth 

Like  the  dread  volcano's  gfev; 
And  tyrants  tremble  at  thy  hinh 

As  at  an  earthquake**  throe. 
Hast  thou  not  lit  the  darken  lead. 

And  broke  the  felleiC 
Th(i  des|)ot's  red  aocuned 

Sliall  never  ibxge  again? 

Another  sun !  thy  bri|(htnea  iwe 

0*er  the  dark  benighted  werUi 
And  on  thy  panic-stricken  Ibes 

Thy  lightning  flashes  hnrled 
Dark  superstition  croudied  wheie'sr 

Thy  tliunder  scathing  Ml, 
And  the  murd*rou8  bigot  quaked  with  te 

As  at  the  flames  of  helL 

And  priestly  craft  and  kingly  pofW 

Ha\e  striven  to  bind  thee  down; 
But  all,  how  low  beneath  thee  eovv 

The  miter  and  the  crown  I 
Thy  nod  can  lop  the  proodest  heal; 

The  world  thy  scepter 
Tlie  |)ath  thou  dost  to  gloij 

Tluit  path  is  {taved 


Yet  art  thou  gentle  as  the 

The  latest  breath  of  day ; 
But  chainless  as  the  mlighty 

In  thy  re>i^tless  swaj. 
At  tliv  i-ommand  tlie  seals 

That  Uaind  the  silent  deep^ 
And  libertv  and  truth  awoko 

From  centuries  of  sleeps 


1840-60.] 


GEORGE    W.   CUTTER. 


SIS 


Then  first  to  every  sinful  shore, 

That  man  in  darkness  trod, 
Thy  bright  and  speeding  pinions  bore 

The  beacon  words  of  Grod. 
The  sage's  lamp,  the  muse's  lyre, 

Thou  brought'st  o'er  ocean's  foam ; 
The  stellar  light  of  vestal  fire ; 

The  eloquence  of  Rome. 

Then  music  rose  in  Runic  chimes. 

And  the  isles  of  barbarous  seas 
First  heard  Athenia's  words  sublime — 

Thy  words,  Demosthenes ! 
And  Plato's  lore  and  Sappho's  lay, 

O'er  other  lands  were  borne, 
Where  late  was  heard  the  wild  foray. 

And  savage  hunter's  horn. 

Thou  flag  of  truth !  thy  folds  have  stream'd 

O'er  many  a  field  of  blood ; 
And  o'er  the  wreck  of  empires  gleamed, 

Like  the  rainbow  o'er  the  flood ; 
The  patriot's  eye  still  turns  to  thee, 

And  hails  thee  from  afar. 
As  the  wanderer  of  the  trackless  sea 

Hath  hailed  his  guiding  star. 

Thou  torch  of  hope,  thy  blaze  shall  bum 

O'er  millions  yet  to  be. 
And  flame  above  the  funeral  urn 

Of  crimson  monarchy ! 
The  world  already  hails  thy  light, 

As  the  Chaldeans  of  old, 
When  flashing  o'er  the  elouds  of  night 

The  star  of  Bethlehem  rolled. 

Like  letters  on  the  Persian's  wall. 

But  plainer  to  be  read. 
Is  thy  ever  bright  and  burning  scroll, 

That  tyrants  mark  with  drearl. 
0*er  scepter,  throne  and  diadem 

Hangs  thy  portentous  glare — 
Like  the  sword  o'er  lost  Jerusalem, 

Suspended  in  the  air. 

Wiiile  to  the  hearth-utone  of  the  hall. 
And  to  the  cottage  hearth. 


Thou  bring'st  a  daily  festival 
Of  nameless,  priceless  worth ; 

Thou  lightest  up  the  pallid  cheek 
Of  the  deserted  poor. 

And  to  the  captive,  worn  and  weak, 
Openest  the  prison  door. 

O!  ever  in  thy  columns  bright, 

Let  truth  and  virtue  blend ! 
Be  ever,  ever  in  the  right  I 

Be  ever  labor's  friend. 
His  strong  and  honest  arm  shall  be 

Thy  bulwark  in  distress ; 
God  bless  the  land  of  liberty ! 

Grod  save  our  country's  Press! 


SONG  OF  LIGHTNING. 

AwAT !  away !  through  the  sightless  air 

Stretch  forth  your  iron  thread  I 
For  I  would  not  dim  my  sandals  fair 

With  the  dust  ye  tamely  tread ! 
Aye,  rear  it  up  on  its  million  piers — 

Let  it  circle  the  world  around — 
And  the  journey  ye  make  in  a  hundred  years 

I'll  clear  at  a  single  bound  1 

Tho'  I  cannot  toil,  like  the  groaning  slave 

Ye  have  fetter'd  with  iron  skill 
To  ferry  you  over  the  boundless  wave, 

Or  grind  in  the  noisy  mill. 
Let  him  sing  his  giant  strength  and  speed! 

Why,  a  single  shafl  of  mine 
Would  give  that  monster  a  flight  indeed, 

To  the  depths  of  the  ocean's  brine ! 

No  I  no !     I'm  the  spirit  of  light  and  love ! 

To  my  unseen  hand  'tis  given 
To  pencil  the  ambient  clouds  above 

And  polish  the  stars  of  heaven  I 
I  scatter  the  golden  rays  of  fire 

On  the  horizon  far  below, 
And  deck  the  sky  where  storms  expire 

With  my  red  and  dazzling  glow. 


314 


GEORGE   W.   CUTTER. 


[UM-« 


The  (k*e(K*st  reces.«(*s  of  ciirtb  arc  mine ; 

I  traverse  iu  nilent  core ; 
Around  nic  the  starry  diamonds  sidnc, 

And  the  sparkling  fields  of  ore ; 
And  oil  I  leap  from  my  throne  on  high 

To  the  depths  of  the  oeean  caves, 
Where  the  fadele>8  ft)n»sts  of  ei)ral  lie 

Far  under  the  world  of  waves. 

My  bein<;  is  like  a  lovely  thouj;ht 

That  dwells  in  a  sinless  hrea<t ; 
A  tone  of  music  that  ne*er  w:is  caught ; 

A  wonl  that  was  ne'er  exjHfsse*! ! 
I  dwell  in  the  bri^^ht  and  bunnsh*d  halls 

When'  the  fountains  of  sunlight  play, 
When*  the  curtain  of  goM  and  opal  lalls 

O'er  the  scenes  of  the  dying  day. 

With  a  glance  I  cleave  the  sky  in  twain ; 

I  light  it  with  a  glare, 
When  tall  the  bo<ling  drops  of  niin 

Through  the  darkly-<'urtainM  air! 
The  nn-k-huilt  towers,  the  turret<»  6™y> 

The  piles  of  a  thou>and  years, 
Have  not  the  strength  of  letter's  clay 

lieneath  my  glittering  s[>ears. 

From  the  Alps'  or  the  Andes'  highest  cnig, 

Fn)ni  the  |M'aks  of  eternal  snow, 
The  hla/.ing  lolds  of  my  fi«'ry  flag 

Illumine  the  world  Ih-Iow. 
The  eartlupinke  heniMs  my  coming  jx>wer. 

The  avahuiche  lK>unds  away. 
And  howling  storms  at  midnight's  hour 

PnH*laim  my  kingly  ^way. 

Ye  tn*mhh^  when  my  h*gions  come — 

When  niv  (piivering  sw(»nl  lea|)s  out 
O'er  the  hills  that  i^'ho  my  tiiuntler  drum 

And  n-iid  with  niv  jovous  shout. 
Ye  quMil  on  the  land,  or  u|>on  the  seas 

Ye  Mand  in  your  fear  agha-t. 
To  "ii'e  me  hum  the  slal worth  trees, 

( )r  >lilv«'r  thr  >tat«'i\  uia^t. 

Thr  hii-mirlyphs  mi  thi*  IN-r^ian  wall — 
Tlie  lettiT^  of  JiiMi  eoniuiantl — 


Where  the  prophet  read  tlie  tjisBl'i  fr( 
Were  traced  by  my  burning  ImaiL 

And  oft  in  fire  have  I  wroce,  ttnce  lhc% 
What  angry  Heaven  decreed; 

Rut  the  sealed  eyes  of  sinfiil 
Were  all  too  blind  to 


At  length  the  liour  of  light  is  here, 

And  kings  no  more  shall  bind. 
Nor  bigots  cnish  with  craven  fear 

The  foni'ard  march  of  mind. 
The  wonls  of  Truth  and  Freedoa'i  nji 

Are  from  my  pinions  hurl*d ; 
And  soon  the  light  of  better  dayi 

Shall  rise  u|x>n  the  world. 

But  away!  away!  through  the  nf^UlwH 

Stretch  forth  your  iron  thread! 
For  I  would  not  dim  mj  aandab  fiur 

With  the  dust  ye  tamely  tread! 
Aye !  rear  it  up  on  its  thocuand  pieiv- 

lA't  it  circle  the  world  aroand— 
And  the  journey  ye  make  in  a  hnndred  joa 

1*11  clear  at  a  single  bound. 


TO  ALTHEA.* 


**  Fonr.KT  me  not!**  as  soon  the 

At  moniitig  shall  forget  to  rise. 
The  sin*ams  forgot  their  coune  to  nOi 

The  moon  forgi^t  the  starry  skie»; 
As  HK»ii  tin*  flowers  forget  to  blow, 

TIa*  magii4*t  shall  forget  the  pole. 
The  hills  forget  the  summer^s  gtow. 

The  o<-ean  m'aves  forget  to  rolL 

"  Forget  me  not !"  O  it  were  well, 
Thou  genth*  one,  perchance  fer  bc^ 

It'  1  could  hn^ak  the  pleasing  spell 
That  hinds  my  every  thought  lo  ike: 

•(»D  MiiK  piv«rnled  by  hv  vftli  ft 


I 


GEORGE   W.   CUTTER. 


316 


well  if  from  my  aching  heart 
mcmorj  of  thy  smiles  would  flee, 
tints  from  the  sky  depart, 
pples  from  the  halcyon  sea. 

ile  my  breast  with  anxious  art, 
treasured  every  look  of  thine, 
n  I  hope  thy  gentle  heart 
e'er  retain  one  thought  of  mine ; 
g,  alas !  the  seat  of  gloom, 
lent  pain  and  wasting  care  I 
could  wish  thy  girlish  bloom 
u-k  and  lonely  thoughts  to  share. 

t  this  little  purple  flower 
•  more  welcome  to  my  eyes, 
riceless  than  the  richest  dower 
fortune's  favored  minions  prize ; 
if  but  one  earnest  prayer 
)  granted  to  my  humble  lot, 
,  thee  one  as  fresh  and  fair, 
ly  to  thee  "  Forget  me  not ! " 

i  from  art  its  beauteous  mould 
every  costly  gem  arrayed ; 
m  should  be  of  virgin  gold, 
leaves  of  rarest  emerald  made, 
might  hail  thy  sunny  gaze 
ugh  life,  in  hours  of  gloom  or  glee, 
1  thee  with  its  fadeless  blaze 
get  me  not,"  eternally. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  LYRR 

■ain,  my  harp,  and  then  farewell 
jver  to  thy  sounding  chords ! 
perchance  this  heart  may  swell, 
*d  by  our  final  parting  words ; 
ow  mav  own  a  shade  of  care, 
changing  cheek  my  grief  betray, 
)n  the  passing  breeze  afar 
;r  thy  latest  tones  decay  ; 


For  oh,  I  deem'd  not  when  my  touch 

Of  late  upon  thy  strings  was  lain, 
Thy  tones  beneath  my  wilder'd  clutch 

So  soon  should  turn  to  throbs  of  pain — 
That  thou  shouldst  be  as  now  thou  art, 

Companion  of  my  early  years, 
Discordant  as  my  breaking  heart. 

And  wet  with  my  descending  tears. 

Alas  for  pleasure's  rosy  hours ! 

Alas  that  time  and  grief  and  care. 
So  soon  should  teach  these  hearts  of  ours 

How  fleeting  and  how  false  they  are  I 
The  soft  and  fleecy  clouds  of  night 

That  float  around  the  silver  moon, 
The  rainbow's  arch  of  painted  light, 

Survive  their  most  enduring  boon. 

As  insubstantial  as  the  hue 

Of  shadows  o'er  a  flowing  stream, 
The  evanscent  drops  of  dew, 

The  fleeting  music  of  a  dream : 
And  what  the  spell  that  can  recall 

One  precious  hour  of  joy  that's  fled  ? 
As  soon  beneath  the  sable  pall 

Ye  may  reanimate  the  dead. 

But  let  that  pass,  it  boots  not  now, 

'Tis  for  the  feeble  to  complain, 
And  manhood  should  in  silence  bow 

To  whatsoe'er  the  fates  ordain, 
Should  bear  him  like  the  stately  oak 

That  does  in  storms  but  stronger  grow, 
And  e'en  survive  the  lightning's  stroke 

That  lays  his  lofly  honors  low. 

What  tho'  the  false  delusive  glare. 

The  phantom  hopes  of  youth  decline. 
The  strength  that's  yielded  by  despair, 

The  might  of  sorrow  still  is  mine ; 
And  if  thy  wild  untutor'd  strain 

Has  made  one  bosom  happier  swell. 
Thy  chords  were  not  invoked  in  vain — 

My  gentle  harp,  farewell,  farewell  I 


ilH-NRY  W.  ELLSWORTH. 


"     t 


V  :•....  vM  :•: :. :.  -  \v*>  rtii,  a  <rnmdson  of  Oliver  Ellswonh,  formeriy  Chief  Ja*- 

'•  lie  1^1  '^upi-'-iiit;  Court,  and  son  of  llenr}*  L.  £^^wo^tl^  late  Cominkfioorr 

■i%r  '    111*'!  Sjutrs  wa."«  bom  at  Win<Lior,  ConniH'ticut, in  the  yemr  1*11 

.:.  -4    ii  \  li'.-  Coik'ire  in  1834,  and  removed  to  Indiana  in  1835,  to  r«>»i' 

'i\  .S4+  111*  was  ap()ointed  by  Pre>ident  Polk   Minister  of  tlie  Tni'-n! 

'^.wii.ii    uni   N'jn»-ay,  and  remained  in  Europe  fn)m  the  fall  of  1^4'»  'm 

^■i:i.ri'Mii   it*.'    liiiies  of  the  mission.     On  his  return  from  Europe,  Mr.  KIl«- 

■  ^   -.;tii*«i  '\v  LVni:imin  F.  Morse  aA  leading;  counM*!  in  various  fcuitiw  inv«ih- 

..::*     1  'ii>  •.••li'Lrniph  patents.     Durin<r  his  residenee  in  Europe,  Mr.  L 

.  ^. . » I :  I    o  M 1 1 '  1  •  II I  o  r  to  the  Aw  irkerhockcr  Magazine.     While  in   8  wetim,  &»i 

,.  .:  ^ .   ic  \%'»'[t'  th»'  lines,  *'To  an  Absent  Wife,"  whieh  have  been  widely  o^ 

«        I    M^  -ointry  and  in  England.     His  "Cholera  King,**  which  ha» eajojed 

,    ..    «  .Mi;;!!  'i\.  \«;L<t  written  at  a  Liter  date,  and  first  appeared  in  the 

\l\.  X*U\turi:i  is  now  a  citizen  of  Iudiaiiapoli». 


\:» 


^% 


•• 


ft*    mvi  k'^tvw  ti^ji^'ther 

».k,»'*    i;o  -»  v»f  old, — 
.  «  oM«i   Hir  M  inter  tin'side, 

.>t  .1 »  iM.V-*  weiv  toltl? 

-.    «>i\  \»(;  ^(*arkled  brightly, 

.      »,..,.». ri  i-\erv  eve, 
v..<  M    .*•»  »>'l   »lie  tempest, 
.    .  .V.  ••.»*. ti  <>hoiilin>;  by? 

■Kv.   »^;.*  "  U':;vihiT, 
.  ^ ..  .  ..I  <u!iM\  plain, 

.  .o    ^MMil  U".  waving, 
..   ^  ., »     ijii  \w\\  grain, — 
^  Kv.    •!»■    !«"id  nibliit, 
^  ^ .  ^  .  ^     '.  »M  if  ln'n,— 
^    .:     !if  (\vili«;bt. 


<  •  ■  ■ 


.»x    *"■.»*   loiji'ther 
,    iKii  •*(  Irani, 


Who>e  tones  were  wont  to  gladden  ai 
JJke  the  music  of  a  dream? 

Where,  in  forest  paths  we  lingered, 
Or  witli  arm  in  arm  Ptole  on. 

Till  the  silver  .«tars  had  faded. 
And  tlie  witching  moonlight  -~^' 


Shall  we  meet  agsiin,  sweet  mother. 

With  that  dear  one  by  our  side, 
Wh(»in  our  hearts  liave  loved  to  cbeivK 

In  the  fullness  of  their  pride; 
Whom  \\v  <t(i  hiivi*  watched  togethrr. 

In  each  >unny  hour  of  glee. 
While  we  li!("i.M-d  the  gloriuu*  Girer. 

That  >U('h  gentle  ones  could  be? 

Shall  we  weep  apiin  together. 
For  the  IovihI  and  early  gone, 

A<i  with  nuisfle^s  !>^tep  we  linger, 
Ne:tr  eai*h  dear.  M'puldiral  «tonr;— 

Wairhiii;;  long  till  evening  dniwfth 
Her  dark  judl  around  their  bed, 


(  riifi  ) 


1840^0.] 


HENRY   W.   ELLSWORTH. 


317 


And,  with  folded  hands  above  them, 
Breathe  our  blessings  on  the  dead  ? 

Shall  we  meet  yet,  love,  together, 

In  that  spirit  clime  on  high. 
Where  the  blessed  of  earth  are  gathered, 

And  the  heart's  best  treasures  lie ; — 
Where  each  deathless  soul  retaineth 

All  it  knew  or  loved  of  yore ; — 
Shall  we — father,  son  and  mothe: 

Meet  above  to  part  no  more  ? 


THE  CHOLERA  KING. 

He  cometh,  a  conqueror  proud  and  strong! 

At  the  head  of  a  mighty  band 
Of  the  countless  dead,  as  he  passed  along, 

That  he  slew  with  his  red  right  hand ; 
And  over  the  mountains,  or  down  the  vale. 

As  his  shadowy  train  sweeps  on. 
There  stealeth  a  lengthened  note  of  wail, 

For  the  loved  and  early  gone  I 

He  oHneth  I  the  sparkling  eye  grows  dim. 

And  heavily  draws  the  breath 
Of  the  trembler,  who  whispers  low  of  him, 

And  his  standard-bearer,  death, — 
He  striketh  the  rich  man  down  from  power. 

And  wasteth  the  student  pale, 
Kor  'scapes  him  the  maid  in  her  latticed 
bower, 

Nor  the  warrior  armed  in  mail ! 

He  cometh!  through  ranks  of  steel-clad 
men 

To  the  heart  of  the  warrior  band ; 
Te  may  count  where  his  conquering  step 
hath  been 

By  the  spear  in  each  nerveless  hand. 
Wild  shouteth  he  where  on  the  battle  plain. 

By  the  dead  are  the  living  hid. 
As  he  buildeth  up  from  tlie  foemen  slain 

His  skeleton  pyramid  I 


There  stealeth  'neath  yonder  turret's  height, 

A  lover,  with  song  and  lute. 
Nor  knoweth  the  lips  of  his  lady  bright 

Are  pale,  and  her  sofl  voice  mute, — 
For  he  dreameth  not,  when  no  star  is  dim, 

Nor  cloud  in  the  summer  sky, 
That  she,  who  from  childhood  lov4d  him, 

Hath  laid  her  down  to  die  I 

She  watcheth !  a  fond  young  mother  dear! 

While  her  heart  beats  high  with  pride, 
How  she  best  to  the  good  of  life  may  rear. 

The  dear  one  by  her  side ; 
With  a  fervent  prayer,  and  a  love-kiss 
waim. 

She  hath  sunk  to  a  dreamy  rest, 
Unconscious  all  of  the  death-cold  form 

That  she  claspeth  to  her  breast  I 

Sail  ho  !  for  the  ship  that  tireless  flies, 

While  the  mad  waves  leap  around, 
As  she  spreadeth  her  wings  for  the  native 
skies. 

Of  the  wanderers  homeward  bound, — 
Away !  through  the  trackless  waters  blue ; 

Yet  ere  half  her  course  is  done. 
From  the  wasted  ranks  of  her  merry  crew 

There  standeth  only  one  1 

All  hushed  is  the  city's  busy  throng. 

As  it  sleeps  in  the  fold  of  death. 
Like  the  desert  o'er  which  hath  passed 
along 
The  pestilent  Simoom's  breath ; 
All  hushed:    save  the   chill  and   stifling 
heart 
Of  some  trembling  passer-by. 
As  he  looketh  askance  on  the  dead-man's 
cart. 
Where  it  waiteth  the  next  to  die  I 

The    fire   hath    died    from    the    cottage 
hearth, — 
The  plow  on  the  unturned  plain 
Stands  still,  while  unreaped  to  the  mother 
earth, 
Down  droppeth  the  golden  grain  I 


318 


HENRY    W.   ELLSWORTH. 


(IMMI 


Of   the  loving  and  loved  that  gathered 
thens 
Kiu*h  fonn  to  the  dead  hath  gone, 
Save  tlie  dog  that  howls  lo  the  midnight 
air, 
B}'  the  Hide  of  yon  cold  white  dtone ! 

lie    comothl     lie    comet h !    no    human 
|K>wer 

Fn»in  luM  advent  dread  can  flee, — 
Nor  kiioweth  one  human  h«*art  the  hour 

Wlicn  the  tyrant  IiIh  gue!«t  tfliall  be  ; 
Or  whi'tlicr  at  flush  of  the  rosy  dawn, 

Or  at  noontide's  fervent  heat. 
Or  at  night,  when  with  robes  of  darkness 
on. 

He  treadelh  with  stealthy  feet ! 


Bright  Eden-land  of 
Proud  home  of  Libeitj  I 


NEW  ENGLAND. 

Nkw  England  !  New  England ! 

How  beautiful  thy  vales, 
Wlicn:  summer  flowers  are  breathing  forth 

Thfir  sweetjii  of  summer  gales ; — 
Where  soi\  the  wild  note  breaketh 

FriMn  out  each  dewy  grove, 
Win -re  lone  the  niglit  bird  cluinteth 

Her  even-lay  of  love! 

Oh !  tiir  bovond  the  sur^res  wild 

That  ImnU  U|N>n  thy  shore. 
Hath  sw<*|»t  the  po^axi  of  thy  fame, 

Old  (Kvan's  vst-^tnrss  (mt;  — 
And  i'4  Ikm>  fur,  the  triumph  sung. 

Of  tliat  tnie-hi*urt«Ml  band. 
AViio  pivi*  thi'ir  ii(ini<-.%  (licir  all,  for  GtM], 

AikI  iiicc,  niv  f:il}i(*rhmd! 

I  iihiwi  riuix  to  the  >kv  ; 
Sl iitiiiiiini>iii>  iliai  (hnI's  own  hand 

VitV  -|\i'  lijilll  |iili-il  oil  lii;;li  ! 

For«'\ir  may  tluy  ;;iiaril  thee, 
A>  iiow  the  ble»ed,  the  free; 


And  beautiful  the  silrer 

That  ripple  o'er  thy 
In  thousand  iunns  meaiideriii^ 

To  seek  their  ocean  re«l  ;  — 
Aye,  beautiful !  and  nwj  tbej 

Forever  bright  an  now, 
A  fadeless  wn;ath  of  lanter 

Thy  clear,  unruffled  tiroir ! 

We  love  them,  for  their  legendt  tefl 

Of  deeds  and  daring  tnie« 
How,  oft  the  hunter  paddled  iben, 

War-led,  his  dark  canoe ; 
And  ofl  beside  their  lloweiy  biok^ 

Mid  sc(.*nes  that  linger  jeC, 
The  Indian  maid — »weet  nadmrg  clii< 

Her  Indian  lover  met! 


And  these  are  gone !  but 

Now  roflim  la^neath  thj 
Whose  priceless  worth,  and  UmCa^lii^ 

(xl(*am  forth  from  laugiiing  cjci; 

Thy   dmighters!    like  sweet  flowcB  4 

spring. 

Bloom  'mnith  thy  fostering  tat% 
Thn)u;;li  i-oining  time,  as  now,  to  ke 
Thy  treasures,  rich  and  rare  I 

Thv  sons !  what  clime  that 

The  noble  and  the  brave? 
The  tamers  of  the  stubborn 

T\w.  n)vers  of  the  wave  ? 
Ayt* !  dearly  do  they  love  tlie 

Tlieir  fathers  died  to  gain  ; 
Their  pride,  its  glory  fresh  to  kM|V 

It.<*  honor  bri^rht  fium  stain! 


'New  Knf;l:ind!  New  England! 

(ttMiV  l>le^«in;r»  on  tluHs  be; 
Aii'i  e\rr  on  tliu.-^e  cherished 

Fond  m«'niory  links  with  theel 
From  tlii«  t:iir  lai:d,  wlwse 

Liki'  tliine  a  glory  wear. 
My  >pirit  turns  to  breatlie  for 

A  blessing  and  a  prayer! 


CATHERINE   A.  WARFIELD. 


lTHerikb  Ann  Ware  was  born  at  Washington^  Mississippi,  in  the  year  1817. 
father  was  Nathaniel  A.  Ware,  of  that  State,  a  man  of  wealth,  and  a  political 
►mist  of  note  in  his  day,  whose  "  Views  of  the  Federal  Constitution "  of  the 
m1  States  is  a  work  of  ability  still  extant  His  wife  was  Sarah  Percy,  through 
1,  in  Mrs.  Warfield's  veins,  mingle  Northumberland  currents  that  have  come 
from  the 

"  Home  of  Percy's  higfa-bom  race." 

-8.  Warfield's  education  was  commenced  at  her  mother's  knee,  and  finished  at  one 
e  best  academies  in  Philadelphia.  Her  poetic  talent  first  manifested  itself  at 
nnati,  soon  afler  leaving  school.  At  this  early  period  she  evinced  great  mastery 
rse,  and  an  aptness  and  force  of  epigrammatic  satire,  which  she  has  had  the  good 
not  to  cultivate. 

ss  Ware  was  married,  at  Cincinnati,  in  the  year  1833,  to  Elisha  Warfield,  jr., 
ixington,  Kentucky.  After  several  years  spent  in  foreign  travel,  and  a  some- 
protracted  residence  in  Paris,  the  young  couple  returned  to  this  country,  and, 
living  a  year  or  two  in  Texas  (at  Galveston),  settled  at  Lexington,  where  IVIrs. 
as  till  recently  been  one  of  the  chief  ornaments  of  the  wealdiy,  refined,  and 
actual  circles  of  that  section  of  Kentucky.  A  couple  of  years  ago,  Mr.  War- 
purchased  a  handsome  country-seat  on  one  of  the  pleasaht  undulations  of  Pewee 
y — a  locality  about  sixteen  miles  from  the  city  of  Louisville,  on  the  Louisville 
vcxington  Railroad,  where  the  family  have  since  resided,  dispensing  the  charms 
refined  and  liberal  hospitality  to  an  attached  circle  of  artists,  poets,  editors,  and 

persons  of  culture.  Among  her  immediate  neighbors  are  Edwin  Bryant, 
f  the  earliest  American  emigrants  to  California,  and  the  first  Alcalde  of  San 
:isco ;  Noble  Butler,  the  accomplished  scholar,  critic,  grammarian,  and  teacher ; 
am  D.  Gallagher,  and  others  of  like  tastes,  cultivation,  and  pursuits, 
out  eighteen  years  ago,  a  volume,  entitled  "  Poems  by  two  Sisters  of  the  West," 
published  in  the  city  of  New  York,  which  deservedly  attracted  much  attention, 
ig  competent  critics  who  bestowed  praise  upon  various  portions  of  the  collection, 
Vm.  C.  Bryant,  whose  taste  or  judgment  no  one  will  dispute.  Two  years  after- 
a  new  edition  of  the  volume  was  called  for,  which  was  issued  from  the  Cincin- 
3ress.     The  two  sisters  were  Mrs.  Warfield,  and  Mrs.  Eleanor  Percy  Lee — a 

of  whom  is  hereafter  given.  A  second  volume  of  their  poems  was  published 
46,  which,  with  all  the  excellences  of  the  first,  has  more  maturity  of  thought, 
vinces  a  judgment  Ftill  ripening  in  the  light  of  experience  and  observation. 
Warfield  is  also  a  writer  of  elegant  and  vigorous  prose,  and  could  at  will  secure 
norable  place  among  the  essayists  and  novelists  of  our  country, 

(319) 


320 


CATHKRINE    A.   WARFIELD. 


[IM»4 


A  fripiiil,  itiTsoiiull}'  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Warfielil,  to  whom  we  wrote  ibr  mfcr 
niatioii  (*()iii?<.*niiiig  hiT  literary  etforts  and  ac'COinpli.<«hment«,  oonclude*  htt  rtfkj  wiU 
th(*  lulluwiiig  rt?iniirk:S  which  both  tho  writer  and  the  Aihject  of  Ui«m  biuC 
lur  iucur|N)rating  in  our  ^ketoh  in  full : 


Although  thr  laiytT  portion  of  the  two  voIiimoR  publlnhcd  jointly  by  the  two 
Mt>.  W'Hiih'ld,  biT  beitt  writiiiKH  have  not  yet  apiN'aml  in  book  rorm.  Within  the  iMt  Ivo  jfv 
at  tlie  Hp'cial  n.-<iuoiit  of  the  tNlitor  of  the  LuhuviIU  Journal,  sbe  has  pablbdiod  In  Ihe  eolan* ( 
that  wult'ly-kiiown  and  alily-conducti'd  iiaper.  quite  a  uumUT  of  poenv.  iminifi-aiii^  aUjikr  w 
piTvadiil  by  a  loftier  ^'pirit  and  roove<l  by  a  d"<'pcr  feeling,  than  iiioe«t  of  bcr  pcvrUms  proJac«»« 
One  of  the  piiT«t(  of  thi>  p-  nod  is  the  **  Atlantic  Telogruph.**  which  hafl  been  ezieiMirrlj  irpahbh* 
ami  jn^tly  admin'd ;  anoth«'r.  the  };rac('ful  and  t»eantiful  ven*eii  entitlHl  **  TbaDdcT  in  Sprl^"  wmk 
third,  a  toucliing  mnniNly  on  th«>  death  of  a  youthful  and  beautiful  relative.  Bui  with  Ihr  |rmH 
of  an  <ild  frieml,  I  liave  liad  thi'  plea^un'  of  looking  into  the  rKcritoireoflCr^  W^  and  It 
gn-at  pleasure  t4>  hay  that  the  beM  pniductionn  of  all  which  havo  yet  come  frum  b«T  pea, 
uianu^'ript.  The  |MK-niH  that  hi)«*ak  DitR<t  of  her  inner  life,  and  do  tbe  moat  cn-dll  lo 
are  yet  h<'ld  Hacn>«1  from  the  intnirion  of  the  common  eye.  They  brmtbe  tbe  ipirlt  of  a  i 
will,  a  chastened  imagination,  and  a  bi*autiful  n-poae.  Th<'y  throb  with  ferilnf. 
cnerjry.  pwell  with  emotion,  and  HuUlne  by  their  pattioM. 

A  p«M'ni  of  much  length.  u|M)n  which  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  Ntying  thai  MnL  WaiMi  li 
Imh'u  eiigag'il  at  tinif'H  for  tlif  past  two  or  three  yi-an*.  will,  when  pii)i|iph*'d,  onlablM  Wrrvydi 
lion  among  th*'  writer'*  of  our  country  who  htand  highlit  in  the  d«*partnH'ni  of  poetiy.  It  iaavdl 
couhtructt'd  Ktory.  of  a  cimpli'  but  efli-ctive  plot,  tilled  with  pawagva  of  ftreoKth  and  hmaiyw 
markable  for  it«  condetiMd  \igor,  and  gi\inK  ample  evidence  of  tbe  piitMion  by  iU  auhti 
diuiiiutic  talent,  and  .-ustainiitg  powi-r. 


THE  RKTUUN  TO  ASHLAND. 


Tlio  people  |NiM  beneath  his 
I     Not  as  they  came  of  yore. 
When  ton*h  and  banner  bore 

Their  jKirt  miiid  exulti 


I' N FOLD  tho  silent  <^lt<'((, 

Tlir  Lonl  of  A.ohhind  waits 
Patinit  witliout,  to  ciitrr  his  domain  ; 

Tell  not  who  hit^  within, 

Witli  -^ad  and  ^tru•k4•n  inirn. 
That  In-, her  si.ulV belovtdJiath cumc again. .      Whith«T  from  life's  tmreM, 

I     As  an  t^jrle  m'cIu  his  netu 


But  still  and  sad  they  sweep 
i     Amid  till*  f(dia^*  dcepi, 
:  Kven  to  till.'  thresiiold  of  that 


m 


\amv^  hath  sho  watched  for  him. 
Till  liope  it>*<*lf  gn'W  dim, 
An<l  Miriiiw  rra-ed  to   wakr  the   fn*< jiiont 
tijir-: 
Hut  l«'t  th«*s«*  irrirfs  dt'part, 
I/ik»'  ^hajiow**  t'nim  Iht  lirail — 


It  ev«'r  wa>  his  wont  to  flee  avay. 


And  \w  on<*e  more  hath 
To  thut  ai*ini<tnmed  home. 
To  taoti*  a  calm  life  never  oflTered  jet; 
To  know  a  n*st  m)  deep, 
That  th«'v  wht>  waioh  and 


T.ll  l..r.  il...  I.mjr  .-x t.-.|  },.Ht  is  hcR..     .  ,„  ,,,;,  ,„i„V„,.,j  ^,y.  ^^.jj  j^ 


III-  cnini- — h\\\  not  alone, 
Fnr  I  lark  I V  pn-^-iin;;  on. 


( )  never  more  hi<i  hall 
Shall  i^'ho  to  the  full 


] 


CATHERINE    A.    WARFIELD. 


321 


proud  step  which  well  his  soul 
pressed; 

lore  with  outstretched  hand, 
e  shall  the  master  stand 
some  coming,  speed  departing  guest 

lore  the  singing  tone 
fill  that  mansion  lone, 
rich  voice  that  stirred  the  inmost 

•1, 

gave  the  words  a  power 
knew  not  till  that  hour : 
ic  strengthened  by  the  organ's  roll. 

lore !  the  soul  is  stirred 
tat  funereal  word, 

1  a  grief  it  scarce  hath  strength  to 
w; 

)d,  if  this  were  all, 

cofl&n  and  the  pall 

eem  indeed  the  symbols  of  despair. 

the  great  and  just 

silent,  mouldering  dust 

dl    remaining,   what  were    being 

rth? 

\jy  a  shining  star 

worship  from  afar : 

row,  mingling  with  the  clods  of  earth. 

rhou  hast  deigned  to  shed 

le  path  that  mortals  tread, 

»f  glory  from  Thy  home  divine, 

teachest  those  who  crave 

life  beyond  the  grave, 

•y  yearning  marks  them  truly  Thine. 

in  his  country's  page, 

patriot  and  the  sage 

veil  enshrined  while  memory  holds 

•  throne ; 

e  of  his  country's  fame 

2  resteth  but  a  name, 

11  be  treasured  as  her  noblest  song. 


THE  ATLANTIC  TELEGRAPH. 

In  the  gray  depths  of  the  silent  sea 
Wliere  twilight  reigns  over  mystery ; 
Where  no  signs  prevail  of  the  tempest's 

mood, 
And  no  forms  of  the  upper  life  intrude ; 
Where  the  wrecks  of  the  elder  world  are 

laid 
In  a  i*ealm  of  stillness,  of  death,  of  shade, 
And  the  mournful  forests  of  coral  grow — 
They  have  chained  the  lightning  and  laid 

it  low  I 

Life  of  the  universe !     Spirit  of  fire  I 
From  that  single  chord  of  thy  living  lyre, 
Sweep  us  a  strain  of  the  depths  profound — 
Teach  us  tlie  mysteries  that  gird  thee 

'round — 
Make   us   to  know  through  what  realms 

unsought 
By  the  mariner's  eye,  or  the  poef  s  thought, 
Thy  thrilling  impulse  fiows  free  and  strong, 
As  the  flash  of  soul,  or  the  stream  of  song! 

Say,  does  the  path  of  the  lightning  lie 
Through  desolate  cities  still  fair  and  high? 
With  their  massive  marbles  and  ancient 

state- 
Though  the  sea-snake  coils  at  the  temple's 

gate? 
Or  lays  his  length  in  the  streets  of  sand. 
Where  rolled  the  chariot,  or  marched  the 

band — 
Or  where,  oppressed  by  his  martial  load, 
The  monstrous  step  of  the  mammoth  strode? 

Doth  he  raise  for  a  moment  his  crested  head 
As  the  thrill  of  thought  is  above  him  sped  ? 
And  feel  the  shock — ^through  every  fold — 
Firing  his  blood — ^from  its  torpor  cold  ? 
Till  he  learns  to  woo  the  mystic  chain 
That  stirs  new  life  in  each  sluggish  vein 
And  seeks  its  warmth,  as  it  works  its  task, 
As  a  desert  serpent  in  sun  may  bask  ? 


21 


:l'2 


CATHKUINE    A.    WARFIKLO. 


[IM 


Doth  that  slender  cord,  as  it  threads  the 

wavi'fii, 
Stn*trh  piwt  the  portals  of  might j  caves  ? 
Plai'cs  of  splendor  where  jewels  gU'am 
In  the  glare  of  the  blue  phosphoric  stream 
Shed  by  those  living  lamps  that  grow 
In  the  lufly  roof  and    the   wnlL;  of  snow; 
And  where  the  kings  of  the  weltering  brine 
Hold    their  wild   revels — by   throne   and 

Bhrine« 

We  follow  fast  on  thy  psith  of  fire 
With  a  dreaming  fancy ^-oh,  mystic  wire ; 
We  fue  the  mountains  and  valleys  gray 
With  plants  that  know  not  the  upper  day — 
We  see  the  fissures  that  grimly  lie 
Where  the  wounded  whale  dives  down  to 

die— 
And  more!   we  see,  what  hath  stirred  us 

more, 
The  wrecks  that  checker  the  ocean  floor — 

Ships  that  full  freighted  with  life  and  gold, 
Sudd(*n1y  sank  to  a  doom  untold ; 
(ialhH>n8  that  floating  from  haughty  Spain, 
Hrai'hed  not  the  haven  of  home  again ; 
Murtial  ve^sels  of  |K)wer  and  pride 
Shattennl  and  mounteil  and  carnage  dyed ; 
And  giant  steamers  that  stemmed  the  seas 
Whose  fate  is  with  ocean  mysteries. 

Wc  know  that  our  country's  flag  is  there, 
And  many  a  form  of  her  brave  and  fair — 
I)(»t  tlioii  keep  them  safely,  oh !  lower  deep. 
In  their  changeless  l>eauty  and  s<»U?mn  sleep? 
Or  are  they  given  to  the  dark  de<'ay 
Of  the  elmrnel-liouse  and  the  bed  of  clay? 
*TU  a  holy  charge  that  thou  luist  in  trust — 
Our  .^lately  vessels — cmr  sjien-d  dust! 

Full  many  a  me?*ag»*  of  ha-te  and  love 
S!,mM  (|uiv«r  the  bn>kfn  ma-t  aUue, 
Or  Ma-h  by  tho«*  *iha[M's,  i-n-rt  and  j-al'*. 
Wit! I  ln;uli-d  fi'rt  and  vn\]\  ^linnnling  sjiil, 
Tliat  *'>tand  and  wait**  without  hope  or 

dread, 
For  the  great  sea  to  give  up  its  dead— 


When  those  long  parted  bjr  knd  aad  wi 
Shall  meet  in  the  glory  beyond  fht  |i» 

Sad  thoughts  are  these  thai  will  kate  lb 

hour. 
Let  them  pass  in  the  tideoT  eznltiag  pofv* 
In  the  stream  of  praise  and  the  aaih' 

free, 
To  the  mighty  Maker  of  earth  and 
Who  hath  granted  skill  to  a  linile 
To  (*onquer  time  and  to  caneel 
And  through  a  human  hand  halh  Ihron 
His  grappling-irou  from  aone  la 


THE  SHADOW  OP  A  TOMB. 

When  earth*s  pervading  vanilj. 

Its  gloss  of  empty  statei 
Fade  from  my  darkened  heart 

And  leave  me  desolate ; 
Wh«*n  phantom-like  the  danom 

Within  the  echoing  hafl. 
And  darkness  o'er  the  sparitliag 

Seems  gathering  like  a  pall ; 


Wlien  on  the  flatterer^a  honied  Ep 

The  words  sei'm  changed  to 
And  darkly  o*er  my  spirit 

The  memories  of  yearv ; 
When  seems  the  present  hot  a 

A  mirage  vain  to  he* 
Then  bn^aks  my  soul  its 

And  lives  again  in  theei 


In  thee,  the  lo->t,  the  heautifiil, 

Tlif  tni<>,  the  pmud,  the  jnrt; 
In  tht>«\  wlio-r  ear  is  cold  and  daU 

Who-p  staielv  form  is  dnst; 
Aye  I  darkly,  »*oldly,  to  my 

Wlu-n*  anguish  ihly 
Tlif  e(>n«*iousness  of  what 

Of  what  thou  art*  ratnrail 


•r 


1 


CATHERINE   A.    WARFIELD. 


323 


twas  for  these— earth's  vanity, 
le  word  of  hollow  praise, 
flatterer's  fixed  and  fawning  eje, 
le  world's  enchanted  gaze : 
these,  which  to  my  world-sick  eyes 
em  dark  and  loathsome  guiles, 
I  forsook  our  early  ties, 
id  thine  approving  smiles. 

^  whose  young  life  was  all  mine  own, 
hose  worship  was  a  fiame 
>ure  for  aught  save  heaven's  throne, 
id  God's  undying  name ; 

wert  forsaken  to  a  doom 

sick  and  lone  despair : 
shadow  of  thine  early  tomb 
lis  o'er  me  every  where  I 

onforgotten  one,  I  crave 

ly  pillow  for  my  head ; 

:r  the  still,  the  silent  grave, 

lan  life,  with  torture  fed. 

Id  that  my  weary  lips  had  quaffed 

leir  deep  and  sacred  part 

lat  profound,  oblivious  draught, 

LSt  made  thee  what  thou  art ! 


SPRING  THUNDER. 

3W  by  the  breath  of  the  balmy  air, 
springing  grass  and  the  sunshine 


soft  rain  falling — as  if  in  love 
eping  blossoms  and  bulbs  above — 
tint  of  green  on  the  forest  brown, 
fallen  tassels  of  Aspen  down, 
lilac  bud  and  the  tufted  larch — 
re   have   done  with   the  wayward 
arch. 

)w  by  the  call  of  the  nestling  bird, 
feels  her  mother  impulse  stirred. 


By  the  venturing  forth  of  the  lonely  bee 
(Like  the  dove  sent  out  o'er  the  olden 

sea), 
By  the  croak  of  the  frog  in  his  willowy 

pond. 
By  the  dove's  low  moan  in  the  copse 

beyond, 
By  the  quickening  pulse  and  the  thrilling 

vein, 
That  April  laughs  into  life  again. 

But  not  the    sunshine,  the  breeze,  the 

showers, 
The  tender  green  on  the  embryo  flowers. 
The  voices  of  birds  or    the    quickened 

sense. 
Appeal  with  such  startling  eloquence 
To  the  heart  that  yearns  for  the  summer's 

reign 
(Weary  and  earth-sick  from  winter's  chain). 
As  that  sound  which  seems  through  space 

to  ring 
The  first  low  Thtmder  of  wakened  Spring  I 

O  marvel  not  that  the  men  of  old 
Deemed  its  deep    music    by  gods  con- 
trolled. 
And,  by  the    power    that  within  them 

strove. 
Called  it  the  wrath  of  the  mystic  Jove — 
For  we  are  stirred  with  an  awe  profound 
By  that  mysterious  and  sullen  sound — 
Nor  give  we  faith  to  the  birds  and  bloom 
'Till  we  hear  that  fiat  of  Winter's  doom. 

So  in  the  Spring  of  our  life's  career 
We  stand  and  gaze  on  the  opening  year, 
We  feel  the  sunshine,  we  drink  the  breeze, 
But  no  source  of  feeling  is  stirred  by 

these ; 
Not  till  the  voice  of  the  stormy  soul 
Swells  like  the  sound  of  the  thunder's  roll — 
Not  till  the  floodgates  of  sorrow  break 
In   passionate   tears — doth  our    Summer 

wake! 


324 


CATHERINE   A.    WARFIELD. 


[IftM 


THE  SAME  CALM  BROW. 

She  met  mc  with  the  same  calm  brow 

She  bore  in  other  years ; 
I  marveled  then,  I  marvel  now, 

Where  slept  her  blinding  tears. 

She  9poke  not  once  of  that  loflt  star, 
Tliat  perished  trom  her  sky : 

Her  words  were  all  of  matters  far 
From  that  great  agony ! 

She  marked  my  dim  and  tearful  eyes, 
My  broken  speech  she  heard; 

And  dark  and  bitter  memories 
Within  her  heart  wore  stirred. 

A  sudden  shudder,  quick  and  sharp, 

Shook  her  with  quiv(*ring.<4, 
As  visibly  an  wli<>n  a  harp 

Id  swept  oVr  all  itit  t«t rings. 

An  ashen  pallor  vailed  her  cheek ; 

Cold  dam)>8  stood  on  her  brow ; 
And  when  at  lust  she  strove  to  speak, 

Her  words  were  whispered  low ; 

But  soon  that  firm,  undaunted  will, 

That  never  strove  in  viiin, 
Said  to  the  inward  storm, ''  Be  still!" 

And  she  wutf  cailm  again. 

Calm!     Aye,  with  that  despair  whicli 
knows 

The  vanity  of  tears, 
She  patiently  awaits  the  close 

Of  her  appointed  years; 

Tliankful  alike,  when  breaks  the  dawn. 
Or  sunlight  fades  in  gloom ; 

lii'OAUsc  each  day  her  stejw  are  drawn 
Still  nearer  to  the  tomb ! 


NEVER,  AS  I  HAVE  LOVED  TBS& 

Nkyer,  as  I  have  loved  thee, 
Shalt  thou  be  loved  aipain ; 

With  aflcctions  deep,  DDchanfin^ 
Through  time,  throogli  gricC 

pain. 

None  shall  e'er  watch  abore  tiMe 

With  such  a  ttfoder 
With  such  unweaned  tij 

Such  patient  hope  and  pnjw! 

Never,  as  I  have  known  thee^ 
Shalt  thou  again  be  known; 

I  studied  every  feature, 
I  pondered  every  tone ; 

I  weighed  each  aacred  feeling 
Tliat  made  thy  benrC  iu  tkriM; 

I  read  my  precious  volnnM, 
Warily,  line  by  line  1 


Never,  as  I  have  traated* 
Shalt  thou  be  trusted 

The  world  hath  dark 
Wrung  from  its  bitter 


Thy  frank  and  joyooa  bearing 
Thy  glad  and  open  smiley 

Shall  seem,  to  hollow  spiritii 
The  mark  of  perfect  gnila. 

Yet,  if  the  love  I  gave  thee^ 
And  if  the  faith  divine 

Have  added  but  a  moment 
To  happinesi  of  thine, 


I  shall  not  all  regret  then. 
Nor  deem  those  offerinp 

Which  leave  my  own 
A  bk*ak,  a  barren  pbin  I 


ELEANOR  PERCY  LEE. 


EANOR  Percy  Ware,  sister  of  Catherine  A.  Warfield,  the  subject  of  the  pre- 
l  biographic  notice,  was  bom  at  Natchez,  on  the  Mississippi  river,  about  the 
1820.  She  was  educated  at  Philadelphia  with  her  sister,  and  then  for  several 
resided  at  Cincinnati.  In  the  volume  of  poems  by  **  Two  Sisters  of  the  West," 
hed  at  New  York,  in  1843,  were  two  or  three  pieces  from  her  pen  which  have 
much  admired  and  widely  circulated.  To  the  ''Indian  Chamber  and  other 
8,**  published  at  Gncinnati,  in  1846,  she  contributed  "The  Stormy-Petrel," 
Natchez  Light-House,"  "  The  Sun-Struck  Eagle,"  and  several  lighter  poems, 
are  characterized  by  peculiar  gracefulness  of  thought  and  sprightliness  of 
ication. 

i8  Ware  was  married  at  Cincinnati  to  11.  W.Lee, of  Yicksburg,  MississippL     She 
Q  Natchez,   when  about  thirty  years  of  age. 


TO  THE  STORMY-PETREL. 

narked  thee  through  the  livelong  day, 
(le  wanderer  on  the  ocean's  breast ; 
een  in  sunshine  stretched  away, 
at  wing  that  never  stoops  to  rest 
tell  me,  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
Y  pinions  still  forever  move, 
e'er  may  sweep  the  ocean  tide, 
lere'er  the  ocean  wind  may  rove. 

Tested  wave  leaps  high  before, 
e  wild  breeze  gathereth  strength  be- 
lind; 

form  above  the  waves  will  soar, 
y  wing  outstrips  the  ocean  wind, 
plume  that  waves  above  the  deep 
es  landward  from  the  swelling  breeze, 
thine  I  whose  fate  is  still  to  sweep 
pever  o'er  the  stormiest  seas  I 

!re  no  terror  on  thee  shed, 
fear  within  thy  quivering  form, 
I  thy  wild  ruffled  wing  is  spread 
rth,  on  the  bosom  of  the  storm  ? 


When  o'er  the  waves  the  lightnings  flash. 
And  many  a  gallant  bark  is  riven ; 

And  solemnly  the  thunder's  crash 

Peals  from  the  darkened  &ce  of  heaven? 

The  mariner's  cold  cheek  is  pale, 

The  locks  upon  his  brow  are  wet ; 
He  curbs  the  helm,  he  furls  the  sail 

In  vain ! — the  storm  is  mightier  yet 
The  sailor's  wife  shall  strain  to-night, 

Her  gaze  across  the  foaming  brine ; 
No  form  shall  greet  her  aching  sight, 

No  voice  be  heard  mid  waves,  but  thine. 

Tell  her  (if  speech  be  thine,  dark  bird). 

Tell  her,  you  watched  him  to  the  last ; 
Tell  her  you  caught  his  latest  word. 

When  clinging  to  the  broken  mast ; 
Tell  her,  how  peacefully  the  wave 

Above  the  cherished  head  shall  sweep ; 
Tell  her,  thou  only  know'st  his  grave— 

Oh,  Stormy-Petrel  of  the  deep  1 

And  thou,  hast  thou  no  binding  ties 
To  curb  thy  flight  with  silken  chain  ? 


(  325) 


326 


ELEANOR    P.    LEE. 


IMI- 


To  call  thee  from  the  raf^^ng  fikiea 
Buck  to  the  ppn^ading  earth  aj^n  ? 

Hast  thou  no  sweet  and  silent  nest. 
Wherein  to  wutch  tliy  little  brood? 

No  8pot  of  earth,  where  tliou  canst  rest, 
When  thou  art  sick  of  solitude  ? 

No  home !  no  home !     Oh,  weary  one ! 

And  art  thou  like  the  dove  of  yore. 
Who  found  no  spot  to  rest  upon, 

Wandering  the  wa^te  of  waters  o'er  ? 
And  hath  thy  slender  wing  the  might. 

Day  and  night  on  the  lonely  sea, 
To  bear  thee  on  th'  eternal  flight 

That  makes  tli/  life  a  mystery  ? 

A  weary  doom  I  a  weary  doom  I 

For  evermore  to  range  ! 
Never  again  to  fold  thy  plume 

In  the  peace  which  knows  no  change. 
There  rests  on  many  a  human  thing 

The  shadow  of  thy  fate ; 
In  hearts  forever  wandering. 

Alone  and  desolate. 

They  who  bear  on  from  land  to  land 

Some  deep  and  restless  grief — 
Some  agony,  whose  withering  hand 

Hath  crushed  a  joy  too  brief — 
They,  who  go  wandering,  wandering  yet, 

OVr  mount,  and  plain,  and  sea, 
SiM'king  forever  to  forget. 

They  only  rove  like  thee. 

They  hurry  through  the  tempest's  wrath, 

iVnd  know  not  that  it  raves ; 
They  hurry  on  tho  lightning's  path, 

And  o'er  the  midnight  waves. 
Yet,  though  the  way  1m*  drear  and  dark, 

And  weary  be  the  breast. 
The  arrow  hurries  to  its  mark. 

The  worn  heart  to  its  rest 

I  \\ill  not  muse  on  things  like  the.8e. 

Fur  it  is  idle  now, 
FIii)<;  Imok,  fling  bark,  oh,  ort*an  breeze ! 

The  dark  locks  from  my  brow ; 


So  I  may  watch  the  whirling  ffigbt 
Of  the  bird  of  tlie  MonDy  hfomt^ 

The  Petrel— on  whoM  path  of  Ggh 
Blooms  not  one  eAithly  flower. 

Unresting  one,  thoa*rt  fading  fat 

From  the  eyes  that  gaae  oi 
Thy  pinion  like  a  dream  halli 

Far  o'er  tlie  dark  blue  aeik 
Go,  and  when  our  pennon 

Beyond  the  tropic  linc^ 
Bear  to  some  other  heart  the 

Which  thou  hatt  borne  to 


THE  NATCHEZ  UGHT40CA 

LoFTT  and  lone  it  stood. 
That   towery   light-house,  on  aj  ■! 

shore ; 
And  from  the  impending  dSM  ioolii 
the  flood. 
To  liglit  the  waters  o*cr. 


Oft  from  that  river  low, 

I*ve  upward  gazed  into  the 

And  deemiMl  tliat  turret's 

glow 

An  orb  tliat  lit  the 

Often,  returning  far 
From  my  young  wj 

and  sea, 
Fve  deemed  that 
star. 
By  angels  lit  for 


But  with  the  passing 
I  saw  that  old,  dark  tower  was 
Yet  loved  I  it,  even  unto 

It  lit  my  pbice  of  birth  I 


^anderinp  ow  A 
beacon  bhaea^ 


There,  there  akme  had  I 
A  right  to  stretch  my 


tomdiiJ 


ELEANOR    P.    LEE 


327 


I  mj  mother's  dust,  and  let  the  crj 
ny  deep  soul  have  way. 

rennore  I  turned, 
ue  heart,  unto  the  old  dark  tower, 
yet  its  heaven-borne  fires  burned 
nj  natal  hour. 

the  last  I  came, 

ness  found ;  upon  that  lonely  spire 

ts  had  come,  and  put  the  old  to 

le: 

[uenched  thee,  faithful  fire. 

uished  beacon !  yet 
soul  still  dear  thy  gloomy  tower — 
t  a  star,  I  cannot  all  forget, 
in  childhood's  hour. 

y  my  place  of  birth, 

still  turns  with  fervor  to  the  last: 

II  her  glory  were  extinct  on  earth, 
e  would  hold  her  fast 

I  on  that  spot  again, 

ed's  steps  should  never  more  be 

m, 

iplace    holds   my  spirit    in   her 

1 — 

I I  not  her  own  ? 

again,  shalt  thou, 
ise!  shine  bright  over  that  cliff 
)ld; 

all  childhood's  eye,  far,  far  below, 
of  deep  love  hold. 

ifiil  watch  both  kept: 
they  yield,  with  all  thy  fires,  to 
aa; 

y  breast  immortal  life  hath  leapt, 
ich  is  not  its  doom. 

ou  and  I  have  burned 
ild  flame,  awhile  to  soar  on  high : 
0  darkness  hast  thy  visage  turned, 
venly  glory  I. 


THE  SUN-STRUCK  EAGLR 

I  SAW  an  eagle  sweep  to  the  sky — 

The    godlike !  —  seeking    his    place    on 

high, 
With  a  strong,  and  wild,  and  rapid  wing — 
A  dark,  and  yet  a  dazzling  thing ; 
And  his  arching  neck,  his  bristling  crest, 
And  the  dark  plumes  quivering  upon  his 

breast; 
And  his  eye,  bent  up  to  each  beam  of 

Hght, 
Like  a  bright  sword  flashed  with  a  sword 

in  fight. 

I  saw  him  rise  o'er  the  forest  trees ; 
I  saw  his  pinion  ride  the  breeze ; 
Beyond  the  clouds  I  watched  him  tower 
On  his  path  of  pride — his  flight  of  power. 
I  watched  him  wheeling,  stem  and  lone, 
Where  the  keenest  ray  of  the  sun  was 

thrown. 
Soaring,  circling — ^bathed  in  light : 
Such  was  that  desert  eagle's  flight 

Suddenly,  then,  to  my  straining  eye, 
I  saw  the  strong  wing  slack  on  high. 
Failing,  falling  to  earth  once  more, 
The  dark  breast  oovered  with  foam  and 

gore, 
The  dark  eyes'  glory  dim  with  pain. 
Sick  to  death  with  a  sun-struck  brain  I 
Reeling  down  from  that  height  divine, 
Eagle  of  heaven,  such  fall  was  thine  I 

Even  so  we  see  the  sons  of  light, 
Up  to  the  day-beam  steer  their  flight; 
And  the  wing  of  genius  cleaves  the  sky, 
As  the  clouds  rush  on  when  the  winds  are 

high; 
Then  comes  the  hour  of  sudd^  dread- 
Then  is  the  blasting  sunlight  shed, 
And  the  gifled  fall  in  their  agony. 
Sun-struck  eagle,  to  die  like  thee  I 


LOIS  BRYAN  ADAMS. 


Lois  Brtan,  diiii(i;hter  of  John  and  Sarah  Bryan,  18  a  natiTe  of  Mowov,  Iivk| 
Bton  county,  New  York.  She  wns  l)om  there  on  the  fourteenth  day  of  October,  1017 
Her  father,  a  prosperou!^  carpenter,  emi;^ted  to  Miehipui  when  Lota  was  hx  yar 
old.  Her  early  education  was  acquired  at  district  schools,  in  a  new  tettlciimiL  Ol 
the  sixteenth  day  of  April,  IK41,  Mis8  Br)'an  was  married,  at  Constantine,  MkUpa,! 
James  Kandull  Adams,  a  n(*wsjmper  editor  and  publisher.  Mr.  Adams  died  at  Kak 
mazoo  in  1848.  His  wi<low,  being  left  without  |>ecuniary  resources,  dcToled 
to  school-teaching.     She  spent  three  years  in  Kentucky  a:*  a  teaclier. 

lietuniing  to  Michigan,  she  became  a  regular  contributor  to  the  MiMfom  Ft 
In  1853  Mrs.  Adams  decided  to  moke  Detroit  her  place  of  permanent 
1856,  she  took  a  proprietory  interest  in  the  Fanner^  since  which  period  the 
vott^l  all  her  time  and  talents  to  its  literary  and  business  affairs. 

During  twenty  years  Mrs.  Adams  has  been  a  contributor  to  the  newipape 
ture  of  Michigan,  and  has  written  occasionally  for  New  York  periodicab  of  wide 
culation. 


A  PONG  FOR  NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 

A  WAT  with  thoughts  of  pall  and  bier, 
And  cjpre'^s  bough  and  funeral  tear. 
And  wui lings  for  the  dying  year. 
Our  housi>liold  tires  shall  bum  to-night 
Witli  wanner  glow,  while  cliildren  bright 
Dance  round  us  in  the  rosy  light. 

Lite  wiLs  not  given  for  tcjirs  and  gn)ans, 
The  gcidlike  gif\  of  s|N'ech  for  moans, 
( )r  liici's  made  for  church-vanl  stones. 
Hang  the  green  lidU}'  on  your  walU, 
And  let  the  childn'uV  laughing  calls 
lie-echo  tlirougii  the  lighted  halls. 

Those  who  luive  killed  the  year  may  weep. 
And  low  in  dust  and  a>hes  cn'cp, 
With  wild  laments  ami  anguish  deep  ; 
Hut  we  have  love«i  him  In^st  while  here, 
(an  bid  him  gi)  with  festal  cheer. 
And  lights  an<l  garlands  n>und  his  bier. 

(  3 


He  came  to  us  a  helpless  diild 
^Vmid  the  snows  of  winter 
Our  hearths  with  blazing  logs  we  pSki, 
We  gave  him  shelter  from  the 
And  closely  wrapped  his  shiTeiiiig 
In  softest  wools  and  ermine 


We  fed  him  from  our  gardeo 
Tiie  richest  fruits  our  orchards  boRi 
And  nuts  from  many  a  foreign  ahorb 
(hir  com  and  wine  his  strength  suppM 
Till,  gn»wn  to  lioyhood  by  oar  aide^ 
We  gloritrd  in  his  youthful  pride. 


We  gave  him  flocks  and 
We  lx>wed  our  heads  to  his 
And  tilled  his  fields  with  wilfing 
When  lo,  to  crown  his  manhood's 
The  ripening  whesit  and  laiscki 
Were  of  our  loving  labor  bora. 


;  Thn)Ugh  all  the  summer's 
I  We  toiled  amid  the  clover 

m ) 


] 


LOIS    B.   ADAMS. 


329 


led  its  fragrance  at  bis  feet, 
iped  his  fields  of  waving  grain, 
lowed  o'er  all  the  vale  and  plain 
wed  the  hopeful  seed  again. 

ben  the  autumn's  withered  leaves 
stling  round  our  household  eaves, 
:hered  in  his  golden  sheaves ; 
ind  his  furrowed  brow  with  maize, 
snored  his  declining  days 
ubilees  of  grateful  praise. 

rk  is  done ;  bis  harvest  home 
ered  where  no  blight  can  come  ; 
3  sealed  lips  are  sweetly  dumb 
he  full  perfectness  of  bliss, 
pture-trance  that  ever  is 
lere  the  heavenly  life  meets  this. 

nt  for  him  no  death-bell  slow, 
le  plumes  and  hearse  of  woe, 
loumers  wailing  as  they  go. 
ing  in  place  of  tolling  knells, 
J  sic  of  your  merry  bells, 
leerful  songs  for  sad  farewells. 

he  green  holly  on  the  walls, 
^ial  mirth  and  music  calls 
irough  your  festal-lighted  halls. 
>m  the  Old  Year's  death  is  bom — 
ghtening  hopes  with  smiles  adorn 
eakins:  of  the  New- Year's  Mom. 


HOEING  CORN. 


the  earliest  light  of  the  mom 

was  hoeing  the  springing  com  ; 

•w  fell  fashing  from  the  leaves  of 
•een, 

ver  his  glancing  hoe  was  seen, 
dark  and  mellow  the  hard  earth 

•ew 

:h  his  strokes  so  strong  and  true, 
steadily  still,  hill  afler  hill, 


As  the  sun  went  up,  he  swung  the  hoe, 

Hoe,  hoe,  hoe— row  afler  row. 
From  the  earliest  light  of  the  summer 

mom. 
Till  the  noonday  sound  of  the  dinner-hom. 

What  was  Ralph  thinking  of  all  the  mom, 
Out  in  the  summer  heat  hoeing  com. 
With  the  sweat  and  dust  on  his  hands  and 

face, 
And  toiling  along  at  that  steady  pace  ? 
A  clear  light  beamed  in  his  eye  the  while. 
And  round  his  lips  was  a  happy  smile. 

As  steadily  still,  hill  afler  hill. 
While  the  sun  went  down,  he  swung  the 
hoe. 
Hoe,  hoe,  hoe — row  after  row. 
Faster  toward  nightfall  than  even  at  mom 
He  hastened  his  steps  through  the  spring- 
ing com. 

Across  the  road  from  this  field  of  com. 
Was  the  stately  home  where  Ralph  was 

bom; 
Where  his  father  counted  his  stores  of  gold, 
And  his  lady-mother  so  proud  and  cold, 
Lived  but  for  the  satins  and  gauze  and 

lace 
That  shrouded  her  faded  form  and  face ; 

While  steadily  stiU,  hill  after  hiU, 
Unthought  of  went  Ralph,  and  swung  his 

hoe. 
Hoe,  hoe,  hoe — row  after  row. 
Day  after  day  through  the  springing  com. 
Toward  the  humble  home  of  Isabel  Lorn. 

This  he  was  tliinking  of  all  the  mom. 
And  all  day  long  as  he  hoed  the  com — 
'^  How  sweet  it  will  be,  when  the  shadows 

fall 
Over  the  little  brown  cottage  wall. 
To  sit  by  the  door  'neath  the  clustering 

vine. 
With  Isabel's  dear  little  hand  in  mine  I 
So  cheerily  still,  hill  afler  hill. 


3:(0 


LOIS    B.    ADAMS. 


[INIil 


Fmm  inuniiiig  till  night  I'll  swing  my  hoe, 

i  IiM',  h(x»,  hoe — row  after  row, 
Knowing  eiu'h  8te]>  that  I  take  through  tlie 

eoni, 
Is  h ringing  me  nearer  to  Isabel  Lorn !  ** 


O  ^la<i  was  he  then  that  the  growing  com 

ShicKli'd  his  steps  from  his  iuother*s  scorn  ; 

And  )i\ud  that  his  fathefV  miser  hand  **An<l  heaven's  own  purest  Uue  fkall  bk 

ILiil  harrefl  all  help  from  his  fertile  hind.    >     The  depths  of  thode  wft-lmning  era 

So  safely  he  kept  his  fores'! -flower,  Whrre  all  of  womanV  tendcmcM 


No  pride  >hall  fill  me  with 
No  anger  fluah  her 


'<  Pure  as  the  snow-flake  in  the  air 
Her  inteileetual  brow  shall  be ; 

In  ringleL-i  bright  her  auburn  hair 
Sliall  wave  o'er  neck  and  botun  firvt 


And  dreamed  of  her  iM'auly  hour  by  hour, 

As  steadily  still,  hill  after  hill, 
Through  the  field  so  broad  he  swung  his 
h<M*, 
I1«K*,  ho*.*,  hoe — row  after  row, 
Knowing  each  ^tep  through  the  growing 

corn. 
Was  bringing  him  nearer  to  Isabel  Lorn. 


In  half  unconscious  slumber 


**  Bright  as  the  blush  of  eariy  mon 
The  ro^e-cints  o'er  her  cheek  shall  ph; 

Hut  not  like  morning's  blui4i  be  bon, 
To  fade  with  each  departing  day. 


"  Forever  on  her  lips  shall  be 

That  smile  of  angel  lovclineHi 
That  spf'aks  to  me  and  only 


''  Ix)ng  as  I  live,  my  Picture  Bride 
Shall  stand  be>idc  my  cottage  door, 

But  months  imssedon,  and  the  ri|N*m:d  com  j^  purer,  tnier  more  beloved 
Was  laid  un  llif  giouml  (»ne  autumn  moni,!     'X'|,a„  ^.^er  mortal  had  befefv. 
While  under  the   sod  in  the  church-yard 

blessM 
An?  two  low  gRives  when*  the  agnl  n»st. 
Th«*  father  has  h'ft  broad  lands  and  gold, 
An<l  the  mother  her  wealth  of  >ilks  untold,'     A  weUxime  to  her  loved 

And  >weet  Isabel — whv  need  I  tell  I 

What  .she  siiid  to  lialph,  when  without  his  And  day  by  day  the  Picture  Bride 

luK!  In  all  iier  blooming  beauty 

Ml*  suuglit  her  side?     It  was  not  ^No!**     The  idol  of  the  arti«l*s  pride, 
That  nnule  her  the  mistn'ss,  one  sumnu'r       Beside  his  cottage  in  the 

nioni«  I 

or  il..-  staKly  I.O..IC  by  the  fold  of  i-ori..    i^^''"'"  •»"™V'P  "?«>»»«■  dewywe, 

He  kn<'lt  in  worship  half 


THK  rifTlKK  BUIDE. 

Onk  day  alom-ly  arti>t  spn'ad 
lli>  ranvas  l)v  liis  cotta;:**  d(M>r: 

**  I'll  paint  nir  sueh  a  liride/*  he  said, 
"A-  iifvrr  mortal  had  In'ton*. 

••  Ml  iirlli'-'i  in  hi*r  nial»'lilrs<  rhanU'S, 


And  when  the  noonday  sun  was  high 
Apiin  he  b«rnt  before  the 


And  when  his  wearv  toiU  werp  o*cr. 

And  ni<;ht  o*erspn*ad  the 
lit*  !»ought  his  l>eauteous  bride 

To  pay  his  homage  at  her 


Full  oft  tlnwe  glowing  lips  he 

Bright  lips,  that  only  met  his 
Full  oft  tbo<e  dewy  eyes  he  blemet 


III  r  tiici-  inr  guileliss  love  rhall  S|ic:di  ;|     That  b«'anii*d  on  him  and  him 


1840-50.] 


LOIS   B.   ADAMS. 


831 


And  when  he  slept  and  when  he  dreamed, 
One  form  in  all  his  visions  rose, 

And  still  her  angel  beauty  seemed 
The  guardian  of  his  sweet  repose. 

Thus  calm  and  blissful,  months  and  years 
Rolled  onward  in  their  circles  true, 

Kor  dread  of  death,  nor  jealous  fears 
Could  mar  the  joy  the  artist  knew. 

But  once,  alas !  in  careless  haste, 
Sach  as  is  sometimes  known  to  all. 

His  hand  reversed  his  bride's  sweet  face. 
And  lefl  her  smiling  on  the  walk 

When  to  his  bower  at  evening  dim. 
With  glad  but  weary  step  he  came, 

No  pictured  beauty  smiled  on  him. 
From  out  her  silver-tissued  frame. 

But  cold  and  dark  the  dwelling  seemed, 
No  lips  were  there  where  beauty  slept, 

No  eyes  where  love  and  fondness  gleamed — 
The  artist  .sat  him  down  and  wept. 

"Ah  me ;  my  weary  life,"  he  cried, 
"  My  all  of  joy  on  earth  is  o*er. 

Hy  lust,  my  loved,  but  faithless  bride. 
Thy  smile  will  cheer  my  heart  no  more ! " 

Thou  simple  artist,  raise  thy  hand, 
And  turn  again  that  frame- work  slight, 

So  shall  thy  bride  before  thee  stand. 
In  all  her  changeless  beauty  bright 

Tis  thus  that  many  a  loving  heart 
Hath  turned  its  joy  to  bitterness, 

Tliy  own  impatience  points  the  dart, 
That  wounds  thee  in  thy  deep  distress. 

If  e'er  thou'rt  shrined  in  woman's  hearty 
The  idol  of  her  holiest  care, 


O !  tremble  lest  thou  break  the  spell 
That  keeps  thy  worshiped  image  there. 

But  shouldst  thou  in  a  thoughtless  hour. 
Unconscious,  cause  the  loved  one  pain. 

Remember  'tis  the  self-same  power 
Can  win  her  back  to  smiles  again. 


LILLIAN  GRAY. 

Bt  yoD  low  grave,  where  Lillian  sleeps. 
And  where  the  willow  o'er  her  weeps, 

The  wild  birds  love  to  stay ; 
They  meet  around  her  in  the  night, 
They  sing  of  her  at  morning  light, 

I  hear  them  all  the  day ; 
But  O,  it  seems  a  weary  song, 
To  hear  them  singing  all  day  long, 

^  We  mourn  for  Lillian  Gray." 

Within  that  grave  my  Lillian  sleeps, 
Above  her  head  the  willow  weeps. 

She  has  no  sculptured  stone ; 
But,  day  by  day,  an  artist  old 
Is  graving  with  his  fingers  cold. 

My  heart,  to  marble  grown ; 
And  all  the  name  he  traces  there, 
From  dewy  mom  to  evening  fair, 

Is  '^  Lillian  Gray  "  alone. 

Beneath  the  tree  that  o'er  her  weeps, 
I'll  lay  me  where  my  Lillian  sleeps, 

To  guard  her  while  I  may ; 
For  sterner  seemed  that  form  of  fear, 
That  traced  the  name  of  Lillian  dear 

Upon  my  heart  to-day ; 
I'm  dying — and  the  wild  birds  sing 
Above  the  monument  I  bring 

To  thee,  my  Lillian  Gray ! 


HORACE   P.  BIDDLE 


Horace  P.  Biddlr  is  the  youngest  of  a  family  of  nine  children.  Hit  fiidMt 
w:u«  Olio  of  the  adventurous  pioncx'rs  who  early  made  the  Western  oountfj  thdr  hoar. 
Ho  uiij^rated  to  Alariotta  in  1789.  AWct  rosiiding  on  the  Mu^kingllm  river  vd 
1802,  he  H'movod  to  Faii*iield  county,  Ohio,  where  Horace  P.  w&<«  born,  aboat  the  jnx 
1818.  He  rtMvived  a  good  common  school  education,  to  which  he  aflenrard  added  i 
knowli*dge  of  the  Latin,  French  and  German  languages.  He  read  law  with  Ilodu&j! 
H.  Hunter,  of  Lanca^ster,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  by  the  Supreme  Court  of  Obn^ 
at  Cinciimati,  in  April,  1839.  In  October  of  the  same  year  he  settled  in  ^-*y**p^ 
Inditma,  where  he  has  since  resided. 

Mr.  Biddle  lias  made  several  excellent  transhitions  from  French  and  German  poctt^ 
His  version  of  Lamartine's  beautiful  poem,  ^The  Swallow,**  was  copied  in  ■■; 
heading  journals.     At  an  early  age  he  commenced  writing  rhymes.     One  «f  ha  ' 
pici*os,  printed  when  he  was  fiAeen  years  old,  contained  merit  enough  to  ii 
nihor  |)oct  to  claim  it  a^^  his  own.     In  1842  he  became  a  contributor  to  the 
Literary  Mettenger.     Since  tliat  time   he   lias   furnished  occasional 
us  well  as  poetical,  to  the  LadM  Repository^  Cincinnati,  and  to  other  literwy 
icaU.     A  collection  of  his  [>ooms  was  published  in  a  pamphlet  form,  in  1850^ 
the  title  ^  A  Few  Poems."     Two  years  later  a  second  edition  appeared.     It 
tho  attention  of  Washington  Irving,  who,  in  a  letter  to  the  author,  said,  **  I  have  res' 
Mnir  (HMJus  with  great  relish:  they  are  full  of  sensibility  and  beauty,  and  beipfliki 
laU-iit  well  worthy  of  cultivation.      Such  blossoms  should  produce  fine  fivL*   b 
IS,*S,  an   onhirged   edition   was   publi>hed   at    Cincinnati,*   with  an  e«nj  CMiM 
**  \\\m\  \s  Poetry  ?"     The  author  elaborately  discusses  the  definitions  that  Imvebm 
^•i\rii  liy  eminent  thinkers,  and  then  decides  that  **  |KX*try  is  beautiful  thongh^ci* 
|iu-iii<d  in  appropriate  language — having  no  reft?rence  to  the  useful." 

\ii  itriivc  and  prosperous  professional  life  has  not  preventecl  Mr.  Riddle 
di.k«\ii  into  the  |M)litieal  arena.     On  the  nominution  of  Henr}'  Clay  for  the 


Im  .«i(wirated  his  election,  and  Wiu«  placed  upon  the  ehrtonil  ticket     In  1845  Wk^  ' 


i.it(u«  II  \iindiihite  lor  the  Legislatuns  but   was  defeated.     He  was  elected 

ii.  X.y  i*l  the  Ki'xhth  Judieial  Circuit  Court  in  IVcemlx^r,  1H4G,  in  which  oAoe  k 

,«.iiiiiiiii*d  until  lHr>2.     He  was  a  m«'ml)er  of  the  Indiana  Constitutional  Cuniitiw 

■ 

\\Ux.  \\  .t-iii'UililiMl  in  l^fiO.     Although  thi>  district  w:is  ng:iinst  his  party,  he  leeoitii 
iuv'>'^>  ^'t  over  two  hundn'd  votes.     In  1H'>2  he  was  nominated  for  CongieH^htf  i 
i:iil  .1  ii>  uveive  the  election.     He  was  eh'cted   Supreme  Judge  in  1857,  bjahf|p 
i«i  VI  iii^ .  lull  the  Governor,  A -^IiIm'I  P.  Willanl,  D'fused  to  commission  him,  Ar  Ai 
M  I  •>•!  iIkii  no  xaainey  in  the  office  existed.     The  Kepublican  party  agnin,  ii  IM  i 

•  %  Vrw  rnrmi.    ClnrlnnaU:  Moon,  WilrU<>h,  Ke>i  k  Co.,  1R&8. 

(  a:i2  ) 


1840-50.] 


HORACE    P.    BIDDLE. 


333 


brought  him  forward  as  a  candidate  for  the  same  position,  but  the  ticket  was  not  suc- 
cessfuL 

Mr.  Biddle  leads  a  somewhat  retired  life  at  his  residence,  '^  The  Island  Home," 
near  Logansport,  but  has  not  altogether  abandoned  the  practice  of  law.  He  has  a 
well-selected  library  and  a  good  collection  of  musical  instruments,  which  occupy  a 
large  portion  of  his  leisure  hours.  He  has  frequently  delivered  lectures  on  literary 
and  scientific  topics.  It  is  understood  that  he  is  preparing  for  the  press  a  work  on 
the  musical  scale,  for  which  original  merit  is  claimed. 


HAPPY  HOURS. 

They  say  that  Time,  who  steals  our  hours. 

Will  never  bring  them  back. 
But  bears  them  off  like  faded  fiowers 

That  strew  his  endless  track. 

But  when  I  think  of  childhood's  dreams 

That  round  my  pillow  cling. 
And  dream  them  o'er  again,  it  seems 

He  never  stirred  his  wing. 

And  when  I  hear  my  father  praise 

His  little  urchin  boy. 
It  calls  to  mind  those  halcyon  days, 

When  all  I  knew  was  joy. 

And  yet  I  feel  the  fervent  kiss 

My  mother  gave  her  son ; 
Again  I  share  a  mother's  bliss. 

Forgetting  that  she's  gone. 

And  when  I  call  back  friends  again, 

That  erst  I  loved  to  greet, 
And  hear  each  voice's  well-known  strain, 

Again  we  seem  to  meet  I 

Time  hallows  every  happy  hour ; 

While  fading  in  the  past. 
E'en  grief  and  anguish  lose  their  power, 

And  cease  to  pain  at  last 


Although  he  thins  our  locks  so  dark, 

And  silvers  them  with  gray. 
His  crumbling  touch  can  never  mark 

The  spirit  with  decay. 

He  gathers  all  the  fadeless  flowers, 
And  weaves  them  in  a  wreath, 

And  with  them  twines  our  wellnspent  hours 
To  blunt  the  dart  of  death. 

As  after  music's  tones  have  ceased, 

We  ofl  recall  the  strain. 
So  when  our  happy  hours  are  past, 

They  come  to  us  again. 

Though  Time  may  mingle  thorns  with 
flowers. 

And  gloomy  hours  with  gay, 
He  bring  us  back  the  happy  hours, 

And  bears  the  sad  away. 

Then  let  us  gather  only  flowers 

Along  the  path  we  tread. 
And  only  count  the  happy  hours, 

Forgetting  all  the  sad. 

And  if  we  yet  should  feel  a  woe. 
Fond  hope  soon  comes  to  prove. 

That  though  'tis  sometimes  dark  below, 
Tib  always  bright  above  I 


J"  RACE    V.    HIDDLE. 


[l*W  A 


\ . . 


i>p  rriE  FLi.>virER. 


._;rtin — ;w;i>  "'Mil  jii  huur— 
.  '^«us  iuiii  in  'it-atli! 


-.k: ..    .11   xi:\z*''i  why  it  wa*  so, 
V    ■    'U«.  !i   M  -anh  wtr»»  pvcn  ? 
* .    ..  ^-1  -uiii,  ■■  riifv  *j»riiijr  Im'Ujw, 
i..i     iiw  -.iK-ir  bhjuin  in  hfav«'n!" 


'oVK  ANP  WISDOM. 

\       \    !i  iMis  :irv  :;iviiijr  sl«jli  for  sijrh, 
^.  ».    ■*  uiiiii;  tint  ihi'ir  tn'itMire, 

V    .  ,1    tM    I'lul  lfii-:i>t  is  iK'atinj;  liif;h 
\     r  '...'\i\  ■li'li^'ioii'i  pli'asun.', 

■i.    .1.   -*:oa'ia  Wi<»iKmi  «'vor  rome 
....   k  -ii»i«l«-  oVr  t*r«*lin;r, 

■   «  ^•^KmNi  pli'iisure  stcaliiij^! 


'* 


If*  o  !(•  IS  warnily  pn*>8iMl, 

o  !uMr(  is  Icaninpr. 

■I  ).*.  ..cimol  Ih»  rx|»n»ss<'<l, 
.  ,  I  *  s'^r  J:\iiifs  till'  iiK'anin^; 
!»■„  •!  W  iMioin  f  viT  iMine 
.  .  .»vtv  o'lT  li'i'liiiir, 
u-..  li  \\  imUuii  rvrr  ifniio, 
..•  *.'  *,.  I'U-.i'^un*  slraliii;:! 


I    .St.'.  .>»iiri':iliiiir ; 
.  .    .  .       1  i»\i'  ha'*  no  rvrs, 
.   .  .-.■.      •  I'  rlin^  ; 

.     ■    ■   r'l'rliii-'. 


Oh,  why  shcxiltl  Wi<>i]nni  eTcr  coin«*. 
Life'ri  ^Wi'<'U*st  pleasure  fltealin^! 

If  Wisdom,  then,  caMii  Lore  awar. 

As  fniit  <list-anli»  the  bloMom, 
Oh,  t:ikt'  old  WiMkjm,  1ft  Love  iUj, 

ll(**s  (IcanT  to  my  hoMNn; 
¥uT  why  should  WiMk>m  ever 

To  ca«it  a  shaiif  oVr  feeling. 
Oh.  wliv  should  Wisdom  ever 

Life's  swotftest  pleoi^ure  slealiiig! 


niRTH  OF  crpiD. 

A  TKAR-DROi*  ft'll  from  an  angeF*  eyr. 
And  lod;;t^i  in  the  cup  of  a  flower; 

Whih*  tn'mhling  there,  *lwas  embraoeil  bv 
a  siirh. 
And  Cupid  wa»  bom  in  tlie  bower. 

Thus  spnui;;  from  embraces,  to  wwttHj 
impres-^M, 
Th<*  <'liild  of  a  flijrh  and  a  tear, 
Aiitl   n'annl  on  tlie  sweets  of  a  flovci^i 
hn*it<t. 
Why  man-fl  he*s  wayward, 
d(T,  and  dear  ? 


IDoLA. 

ITku  clu'ck  i*i  pah*,  hor  eye  of  bloe 

YiMi  <i*i*  I  In*  ii'aiwimp  start; 
;Shi'  i*^  t(»o  tfinlfT  and  too  heantifU 

Fi»r  •ii-Mi!i*'j  uiHTriiiir  dart ; 
Yi  t  <Ji»*i  r«'«*ilvi'<  fhi*  dutiful— 
I      111'  -till,  rnv  h»'art ! 


SARAH  J.  HOWE. 


JAH  J.  Howe,  wife  of  Hammond  Howe,  for  many  years  a  resident  of  Newport, 
icky,  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  newspapers  and  magazines  of  Cincinnati, 
en  1839  and  1849.  In  1847  Robinson  &  Jones,  Cincinnati,  published  a  dra- 
poem  from  her  pen  entitled  "  Boleslas  II.,  or  the  Siege  of  Kiow,"  It  was 
;d  on  incidents  in  the  history  of  Poland.  At  that  time  a  volume  of  poems  by 
Elowe  was  advertised,  but  never  published.  Her  best  poems  were  contributed 
Ladies'  Repotitory. 


"  LET  US  GO  UP."  • 

us  go  up."     There's  many  a  field, 
,  bright^  and  lovely,  lies  untiU'd, 
oany  a  gushing  fount,  from  which 
mpty  pitchers  may  be  filled  I 
,  in  that  fair  and  glorious  land, 
irhich  the  saints  in  heaven  have  trod, 
gentle  wave,  the  crystal  stream 
\  from  the  "  City  of  our  God ! " 
us  go  up."     The  Lord  will  be 
ock,  our  fortress,  and  our  shield  I 
^h  many  foes  should  hedge  our  way, 
iord's  right  arm  shall  make  them  yield ! 
5  shines  the  sun  with  chastened  beam — 
ivious  cloud  obscures  his  lights— 
in  that  pure  and  perfect  day, 
hall  forget  that  e'er  'twas  night  I 
us  go  up."     Invincible 
hose  who  in  Jehovah  trust, 
nns  must  conquer — faith  and  prayer — 

who  resist  us  are  but  dust ! 
^  God  will  wipe  away  our  tears, 
lil'e  si  Kill  own  no  sorrowing  stain — 
-us  we  shall  all  be  one — 
d — an  unbroken  chain ! 


et  as  go  up  at  once  and  posM^fw  it ;  for  we  are  well 
overcome  it/'    Numbers  xiii.  dO.  I 


BEND  SOFTLY  DOWN. 

Bend  softly  down,  ye  gentle  skies, 

Bend  soflly  down  to  me ; 
That  I  may  see  those  spirit-eyes, 

If  spirit-eyes  they  be — 
Bend  gently  down,  for  I  have  dreamed 

That  there  were  forms  above 
In  every  pearly  star  that  beamed, 

Made  up  of  light  and  love. 

Bend  sof\ly  down,  ye  gentle  stars, 

And  lifl  the  azure  vail, 
That  I  may  see  your  pearly  brows 

That  ne'er  with  sorrow  pale. 
There  must  be  hearts  in  that  blue  realm 

That  throb  with  fearful  bliss, 
They  cannot  be  so  dull  and  cold, 

So  pulseless  as  in  this. 

Oh !  I  have  set  my  weary  heart 

On  love  this  earth  hath  not. 
And  mine  through  life  must  ever  be 

A  sad  and  lonely  lot 
Bend  softly  down,  ye  gentle  skies, 

Bend  softly  down  to  me  ; 
That  I  way  see  those  spirit-eyes, 

If  spirit-eyes  they  be  I 


(335) 


336 


SARAH   J.    UOWE. 


[li>H 


HYMN  OP  TUANKFULNESS. 

I  BLESS  thee,  Fatheis  that  tliy  breath  has 
given 
Existence  unto  me,  a  broken  reed ; 
That  'midst  the  griefs  by  which  life's  ties 
are  riven, 
Thou  hast  bestowed  me  strength  in  time 
of  nee<l  I 
Thy  hnnd  upheld  me  when  my  heart  was 
fraught 
With  griefs,  tliat  wrung  my  full  heart  to 
the  core; 
Tho'  I  p<;rceived  not,  'twas  thy  hand  tliat 
brought 
The  "balm  of  Gilead"  to  the  festering 


sore! 


I  bless  thee,  Father,  for  the  well  upspring- 


mg- 


A  well  of  pleasiuit  thoughts,  within  my 
breajit, 
That   e*er  hath   been   like  April  violets, 


I  bless  thee,  Father,  for  tlie  light  vbkh 
shincth 

Clear  and  unbroken  on  life*f  roQed 
way — 

A  ray  from  thy  pare  throne,  whkh  ne'«r 

deelineth. 

But  ever  brightens  till  the  perfed  4f : 

Tliat  thou  hast  taught  my  heaft  to  be  8» 
tent — 

My  weary  seal  to  saiTer  and  be  itil^ 
A  pilgrim  I,  who  petieotly  mmt  vail 

Till  I  Imve  done  oa  earth  my  MaiWi 

will! 


AFTER  A  TEMPEST. 


The  stars  had  come  oat  fimn  their 

of  bright  blue— 
Etemity*s   watchers— 4he    pure    aad  fk 

true ! — 

As  I  wander'd  abroad  'neatli^  t^ 
moon  J 

That  lit  up  the  skies  of  oar 

There  lay  the  proud  oak  that  had 

Their  pleasant  odor  o'er  the  traveler's  ^  ^^^  ^'i"« 


flin<rinir 


rest — 
A  wfU   which  often   cheered   my  weary 
hours, 
And  h*d  my  spirit  upward  to  thy  throne — 
A  fuir}'  gift,  that   strew'd   my  jKith  with 
lli»wt*rs. 
And  hrighten'd  those  that  lay  beside  my 
own ! 


Through  winter's  dark  tempeili 

mer's  warm  shine. 
It  lay  in  the  pomp  of  its  towering  ptii^ 
The  vine's  gentle  tendrils  all 

side. 
The  vine  flowers  scattered,  itni 

their  bloom. 
And  yielding  in  dying  their  richert  p0 

fume ! 
As  I  gaziHl  on  the  ruin  the  tw—yrf  ha 

wrought — 


I  bless  thee.  Father,  for  the  sunlight  stn.*am- 
in;r. 

T^ik<'  <:r(>I<len  showers,  on  fon'st,  hill  and  The  blossoms  of  spring  with 
<!om(' !  fraught. 

Ami  tor  th«*  blessed  stars,  like  watch-fires  I  saw  by  my  side  in  the  cleft  of  a 

;rl raining  A   flower  unscathed  by  the 
On  li('a\  <-n*s  high  walls,  to  light  us   to  hhiM>k, 

I  Mir  lioini> ;  Still  blooming  so  sweetly,  its  *lflifalf  ftfl 


AihI  tiir  «a4-li  \\iX\o  flowrr  that  lifts  its  cup, Defying  tho  wniih of  the  pitiless 

Ot'  ;:iiiili>  brauty  thro*  the  rmfnild  >oiI.  I  U>oktMlallli('flower,andItuniedtoths4KT 

ScmiinL^  it>  iM-rfunir — naturi-*s  inci-nsi' — up  And  thou;;ltt  of  the  ^Rock  that  11 
I'lito  ihv  thnmi',  I  blcsa  th«M»,0  mv  God  I  than  I." 


LEWIS  J.  CIST. 


J.  Cist  is  the  eldest  son  of  Charles  Cist,  who  is  well  known  throughout 
as  the  editor  of  Cist's  Advertiser,  which  was  published  in  Cincinnati  from 
1853 — and  as  the  author  of  three  volumes  of  "Annals  of  Cincinnati" — 
at  decennial  pcrio<l3,  the  first  volume  representing  the  Queen  City  in  1840. 
J.  in  his  early  boyhood  manifested  a  promising  gift  for  making  rhymes,  but 
having  a  practical  rather  tlian  a  poetic  turn  of  mind,  instead  of  encouraging 
ike  authorship  his  profession,  required  him  to  give  attention  to  mathematics 
red  studies,  and,  before  he  had  attained  his  majority,  the  young  man  Ifecame 
aed  clerk  in  the  Bank  of  the  Ohio  Life  and  Trust  Company.  Bank- 
ver,  did  not  prevent  Mr.  Cist  from  often  courting  the  muses.  He  wrote  for 
terictn,  for  his  father's  Advertiser,  and  for  other  newspapers,  a  large  number 
from  which,  in  1845,  he  made  sekjctions  for  a  volume*  which  was  published 
nati.  In  his  preface  he  dis(?laimed  "  pretensions  to  the  honored  title  of  poet, 
itimate  sense  of  the  teiin,"  but  styling  himself  a  versifier,  declared  that  he 
tented  himself  with  occasionally  gleiming — here,  it  may  be,  a  weed,  and  there, 
J,  a  flower — from  such  by-nooks  and  out-of-the-way  comers  of  the  field  of 
had  been  passed  over  by  the  more  worthy  and  accredited  giitherers  of  the 
led  harvests  of  Parnassus."  Notwithstanding  this  modest  disclaimer,  the 
ik  was  received  with  words  of  fair  encouragement  by  influential  reviewers. 
IS  commemorating  home  affections  were  particularly  approved.  Several  of 
e  been  widely  circulated. 

St  is  a  native  of  Pennsj^Ivania.  He  was  bom  on  the  twentieth  day  of  No- 
1818,  at  Harmony,  a  village  established  by  George  and  Frederick  Bapp 
?rward  made  "  Economy  "  famous),  on  the  banks  of  Conaquenesing  Creek, 
ream,  rising  on  the  confines  of  Butler  and  Venango  counties,  Pennsylvania, 
ying  into  the  Beaver  river  about  twenty  miles  above  its  confluence  with  the 
[is  father  removed  to  Cincinnati  when  he  was  a  child.     There  Lewis  J.  re- 

1850,  when  he  removed  to  St.  Louis,  in  which  city  he  is  now  Assistant 
n  a  leading  bank.  Since  his  residence  in  St.  Louis  he  has  rarely  published 
it  he  has  devoted  himself  with  poetic  enthusiasm  to  the  collection  of  auto- 
He  is  prominent  among  the  most  devoted  and  successful  collectors  of  chiro- 
uriosities  in  the  United  States. 

;  Ven« :  A  Collection  of  Fugitive  Poem*,  by  Lewis  J.  Cist.    Oineinoati :  RobioMW  fr  Jodm,  IStf.    12dio, 


(  337) 

l2 


.  :  V  :^  J.  «-isT. 


^    .-    "."."vri'ii — 

■    .      .11:  h, 

.'   !    I  rnith, 
■."•    ur'v  t»*:iis. 

• 

■  .      -  1:::':  tho  trt't'S, 

,  ■  ^u;  JirA  lone» 

L.  I 

■  ■•  T  -:.  rv, 

•  :m\v  ; 
..  \  ■  T*  I'Vfn 

...  •      :   ht'avi*ii» 
^-..■-  X'  :i  lumr ; 
1  -.  :•  J  : — 
:t.-  '.\\n  thrs«^ 
,     ■ .    -   ::itl  u--  ihrunjj    . 


.   ^•.■^-  :i!ul  iln-ary, 
,  *  i»  :»»  liravm, 
«.:irv ; 

*     .'"A  :unl  >tIII, 
■v-    iMi-t'  ^ln»W^^ 

'  r.i. 

i 

••  \   ■«■. 

.    •   "l  ■ 

^*.    "..M-ii'-i ! 

,   ■:  I  unipil. 
.   ■:'  -.iiliH'-"-, 
..     :.■   .:»    .M»lll; 


Ami  ill  ^nrniw.  oVr  ii«  -Iralin;; 

With  ttit-ir  •r<'Mt|i'n**«i.«  <ui<l  i-ulii. 
ThfV  an-  h-avi--  ol'  j-p-fii"!-  h»-:i:.'.: 

'I'lii-v  are  fruit"*  nf  *'L«iio-'I  l«a:-L. 

w 

Kvcr  till.  wIh'Ii  lil'f  <l«*|i:irt«, 

I)«alli  I'niin  dm**  thr  *|iirit  lSv%. 

CIhti-Ii,  ill  tliiiH*  lii-Jirt  of  li»*an.% 
All  tliiiif  ( )Mrii  Mt.Miiurit's  ! 


TO  MY  MOTUKR. 
MoTiiru  I  thf'V  >ax  to  me,  that  'Sic 

m  m 

Hrj:inii*'*t  to  inrti^  *»M : 
Thai  tiini-,  in  tiirrows  on  thr  Jimw, 

■ 

I  lath  phinMl  hi«»  ini[in-<«  d>liL 
*Ti«  hi!  vft  ilo^t  thou  Mill  :ip|iejir 

As  yf»iiii«r  iinti  fair  to  mn, 
A*  wIh'II  ail  iiitaiit.  nMrthf-r.  ciear. 

I  ]ihiyt'(l  ii]K>n  thy  knfcl 

Thrv  tril  me.  mi>ihiT.  that  ihT  cL<«i 

I  lath  IfM  that  ruiMv  ;:li»w, 
Ot'  whiih  M»  nft  V\v  ht-ani  iho«»  ^ 

Willi  kiH*w  thrr  lt»nff  affOw 
It  may  Im*  m)  I  y»'t  will  I  j»n»** 

Thnt  (*hi*«*k  wiili  ]ov»*  a*«  Mnxi£ 
A<  uhi-ii  ill  rhiI(llHNifl*«  tir^t  embrv 

I'jioii  thy  Hfck  I  hiin<; ! 

Thtv  till  mi-  many  a  cluum.  oner  :x 
Ili-L'iniM'th  to  •liH'av  ; 

■ 

That  thv  HI  in*  irh»*j-v.  raven  hair 

•  * 

I-  tiiriiiiiL'  fa-l  In  'jrmv. 
Y»  t  I  «a.h  hiKirv  in»^*  n-vi-r**, 

■ 

l'.i<!i  <  I.:  I  nil.  \'\   thfi'  |N»-«f**#'«L 
A-  ?.i  r  ♦•'  m«   il'iMi  "■till  aj«ji»-ar. 
A^  lir-t  Miy  -i.::hi  it  !•!• "-- 1^! ! 

A;.  1  Ml  I  \r.:  \\  ':!«•  ivi  n  ■i«\ 
I'-. I-  lif.'-  i-  l.!irr%iri^  i»n  ; 

Ari-1  :! \\]i"  Ii\«-  t"  \*h'«  a.*  rv". 

Al:i«I   will  ?i*Niii  1m»  gone. 


40-50.] 


LEWIS   J.    CIST 


8S9 


And,  mother,  dear,  it  grieves  mj  soul 

To  think  that,  day  by  day, 
Thou'rt  reaching  nearer  to  thy  goal, 

And  soon  must-pass  away  I 

Mother  I  in  sooth  it  filleth  me 

With  sorrow  sharp  and  keen, 
When  I  look  back  and  think,  to  thee 

How  wayward  1  have  been. 
Oh  I  could  I  but  live  o'er  again 

My  life  from  infancy, 
I  think  how  much  of  care  and  pain, 

Mother,  I'd  spare  to  thee  I 

Ah,  vain  the  wish  !  for  time,  once  gone, 

Can  never  more  return  ; 
And  as  it  still  is  hurrying  on, 

Still  onward  we  are  borne. 
And  deeds  once  done,  are  done  for  aye, 

Whate'er  they  may  betoken ; 
And  we  may  utter  words  to  day. 

Can  never  be  unspoken  I 

But,  mother,  though  I  cannot  now 

Recall  the  years  long  past, — 
Remove  the  shadows  from  thy  brow, 

That  time  and  grief  have  cast, — 
Yet  it  may  be  my  sweetest  care, 

Each  care  of  thine  t'  assuage, 
And  soothe  thine  every  future  year 

Of  earthly  pilgrimage ! 


LOVE  AT  AUCTION. 

Yes  !  O  Yes !  O  Yes !— For  sale, 
At  auction  to  the  highest  bidders, 
ithout  reserve — pray  list  the  tale, 
Ye  '*  nice  young  men,"  and  tender  wid- 
ows,— 
lot  of  sundries,  of  all  sorts 
Of  gentle  gifts,  of  love  the  token ; — 
rigs,  chains  and  cupids,  darts  and  hearts, 
Some  sound  and  whole,  some  cracked 
and  broken ; 


Watch-guards,  watch-papers,  and  watch- 
seals; 

Rings,  plain  and  fanciful,  in  plenty ; 
Breast-pins,  pen-wipers,  and  grace-quills ; 

With  miniatures,  perhaps  some  twenty ; 
Pincushions,  fifty  odd,  or  more ; 

Slippers,  with  love-knots,  several  pair ; 
Of  valentines,  at  least  a  score ; 

And  some  few  hundred  locks  of  hair  I 

And  to  begin  the  sale : — Here's  this 

Small  lot — ^a  ring,  with  chain  and  locket, 
All  of  pure  pinchbeck — ^from  a  Miss 

Who  once  drew  largely  on  my  pocket : 
To  balls,  to  concerts,  to  the  play, 

And  rides  I  freely  used  to  treat  her ; 
The  cut  direct,  the  other  day, 

She  gave  me,  when  I  chanced  to  meet 
her  I 

Here  is  a  little  fancy  seal. 

With  Cupid  flying  to  his  mam,  on ; 
The  motto  French — Toujours  Jidde! 

That's  French,  I  take  it,  for  "  aU  gam- 
mon ! " 
The  girl  who  gave  it  me,  next  day 

Denied  my  suit  with  jest  and  laughter ; 
And  with  her  cousin  ran  away — 

Toujours  Jidele!  —  some  three  weeks 
aflerl 

This  was  the  gifl  of  one  I  loved, 

God  knows  how  fervently  and  truly  I 
I  should  have  so,  if  she  had  proved 

One  half  the  thing  I  thought  her  wholly; 
She  turned  out  but  a  fair  coquette, 

And  when  she  laid  me  on  the  shelf. 
With  this  dark  braid — I  have  it  yet — 

Her  gift,  I  thought  to  hang  myself: — 

I  didn't  though !     I  kid  it  by 

Until,  with  years,  my  love  is  cool ; 

And  looking  now  upon  it,  I 
Can  wonder  I  was  such  a  fooL 

Poor  girl !  she's  wedded  since,  to  one 
Who  loved  her  dearly — ^for  her  pelf! 


340 


LRWIS    J.   CIST. 


lum- 


Tlie  wretch  to  Texas  late  has  gone, 
Aiid  lefl  her  now  to  hang  hersell'I 

This  valentine  was  sent  hy  one 

Whotfe  name's ''a  |M)et*s  iiassion.**  Blary. 
Once  ;rnuref'ul  as  a  bounding  fawn, 

And  luischicTOus  as  any  tiiiry : 
Sli(i*ri  niurrietl,  t<x>,  and  tut— ye  gods ! 

I  scanri'lj  can  contain  my  laughter. 
When  in  the  street  I  sometimes  meet 

Her,  with  her  ducklings  waddling  after ! 

A  miniatun^ !  of  her,  my  first, 

lily  warmest  love — |M*rha]>s  my  only  ! 
How  has  my  heart  ht.T  unage  imrsed, 

A  light  unlo  my  pathway  lonely  ! 
She  weds  another  soon — her  vow 

To  me  all  lightly  hath  >he  broken ; 
Her  gift — aye,  let  it  go,  for  now, 

Tis  of  her  tULsehuod  but  the  token  I 

This  tress  of  hair  of  golden  hue 

(Some  call  it  red — 'ti>  not,  'tin  auburn ! 
For  tiie  distinction  *twixt  the  two, 

A  ])oct  ask,  or  ask  Gnmt  Thorbum !) 
Belonged  to  one — a  glorious  girl — 

I  loved  as  brother  may  a  sister ; 
Smoothed  oer  her  brow  each  sunny  curl, 

And  sometimes  chid,  and  sometim«;s — 
kissed  her! 

All,  those  were  liappy  days  to  mo ! — 

Dear  Ella,  do  you  ne'er  regret  them  ? — 
Yet  ho]M'les8  though  the  tn>k  may  \h\ 

Wow  have  I  t^triven  to  forget  them! 
The  bitterest  sting  in  love,  that's  lost, 

I>  memory  of  \t>  by-p»ne  plett'^ures ; 
^  »ut  how  must  that  lone  heart  Ix*  <>rosne<l 

Which  longs  to  yield  thus  up  such  tre;4S- 
ures! 

So  more ! — the  sale  must  <'lo.-^,  lest  I 
K:ii-h  firm  resolve  >!ioiild  reconsider ; 

Thn»w  in  one  K»t  the  rest — who'll  buy  ? 
I'll  knock  it  to  the  highest  bidder; 


I  thought  it  not  so  hardlj  doos, 
Emrh  long-cemented  tie  to 

But  now  they're  ** 
And  Love  and  1  here 


OHIO'S  PILGRIM  BAND. 


New  Englastd  wdl  omit  bnwc 
Tlie  band  that  on  her  coast. 

Long  yean  ago, 
Their  Pilgrim  anchor  ca»t — 
Their  Pilgrim  l»ni^  made  fiw^* 
Mid  winter's  howling  bhst 

And  driven  soov. 

Long  since  hath  paascd  nmj 
Each  Pilgrim,  hoar  and  graf. 

Of  that  lone  bnad: 
Yet,  wliere  their  aahea  Ke, 
Spnuig  seeds  that  shall  not  fie. 
While  ever  yon  blue  skj 

ShaU 


Sons  of  that  Pilgrim 
Were  tliey  from  whom  we 

Our  Buckeje  blood: 
Ohio's  Pilgrim  bniid, 
Lo !  on  yon  shore  thej  ilHii 
Their  f«N>r steps  on  the  land* 

Their  trust  b  God! 

Not  with  the  bold  arraj 
Of  armies  dread,  came  tfacT 

Proud  oonqiiQft  oa; 
Tlirough  a  long  warfiuv 
With  patient  hanlihood. 
By  toil,  and  strif«i«  and 

The  soil  was 


W(»n  from  the  Red-man'Si 
To  be  an  Uen  fiur 

To  us  and  oon  i 
W«m,  as  the  peacefol 
Of  age,  and  beantj*! 


1S40-50.] 


LEWIS   J.   CIST. 


S41 


While  day  shall  chase  night's  gloom, 
While  time  endures  I 

God  of  the  high  and  free ! 
Our  fathers'  God — to  thee 

Our  thanks  he  given ; 
Thanks  for  the  true  and  brave — 
Sires  of  all  that  sons  might  crave — 
Their  forms  are  in  the  grave, 

Their  souls  in  heaven  I 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  TO  HER  SISTER. 

CoxB  home,  dear  sister  I     Sad  and  lonely- 
hearted, 
As  o'er  another  ray  of  light  withdrawn, 
As  for  the  sunshine  of  her  home  departed, 
The  blind  girl  sits  and  weeps,  to  mourn 
thee  gone. 
Gone ! — the  companion  of  her  mirth  and 
sadness. 
The  friend  and  playmate  of  her  childish 
years; 
life,  in  thy  absence,  loseth  half  its  glad- 
ness, 
And  this  deep  darkness  doubly  dark  ap- 
pears: 
The  long,  long  day  is  more  than  night 

without  thee — 
Thrice  welcome  night !  for  all  sweet  dreams 
about  thee ! 

Come  home,  sweet  sister !    Ah,  how  much 
I  miss  thee — 
All  thy  kind  shielding  from  life's  rude 
alarms — 
Prom  day's  first  dawn,  when  erst  I  sprang 
to  kiss  thee, 
Till  night  still  found  me  nestling  in  thine 
arms. 
Bly  lips  may  speak  not;  but  the  heart's 
deep  feeling, 
The  spirit's  sadness,  and  the  low-voiced 
tone. 


The  round  full  drops  that  vrill  not  brook 

concealing, 
These  tell  of  one  deep  grief — I  am 

alone ! 
Alone ! — Without  thee,  dearest,  what  to  me 
Were  even  life's  best  gift — the  power  to 

seel 

Come  home,  dear  sister  I     Can  the  far-off 
stranger. 
How  kind  soever,  yield  thee  love  like 
mine? 
Can  fairest  scenes,  through  which  thou 
rov'st,  a  ranger, 
Give  to  thee  joys  like  those  which  home 
enshrine  ? 
Think  how  for  thee  my  lonely  spirit  pineth. 
Through  the  long  weary  hours,  as  day 
by  day, 
Slowly  the  sun  down  yonder  west  declineth, 
Whilst  thou,  my  sun  of  life,  art  far 
away! 
Thou  canst  not  dream  how  this  fbll  heart 

is  yearning 
For  that  blessed  day  which  sees  thee  home 
returning  I 

Come  home,  sweet  sister!     Like  a  dove, 
all  lonely. 
My  heart  sits  brooding  in  its  silent  nest, 
O'er  joys  departed.     Come  I  thy  presence 
only 
Can  make  our  home  with  cloudless  sun- 
shine blessed ! 
E'en  as  the  bird,  whose  gentle  mate  has 
perished, 
Droopeth,  no  more  to  notes  of  rapture 
stirred — 
So  I  pine  now,  amid  the  scenes  we've  cher- 
ished; 
I  cannot  sing,  where  ever  once  were 
heard 
Our  strains  commingled,  ere  thy  steps  did 

roam ; 
My  song  is  hushed !     Sister,  sweet  mate, 
come  home  I 


I.KWlri    J.   CIST. 


TUB  BKAThJN  I'ATIL 


That  Ut'alen  Talli ! — tlmt  IlciUun  I'ath ! 

It  g(M;thhjf  tlw  door; 
And  nittiiy  a  tiilc  t(>  Ivl)  it  Imth 

Uf  till!  days  thut  un:  iiu  nuiny  i 
Fur  o'ur  lliiu  putli,  in  weal  or  woe, 

Kurtli'fl  weary  oni»  liuve  trud; 
And  m'day  »  hurried  sK'i),  ur  sluw, 

lluili  ]>ressi-d  itii  tiiuowoni  ?oA. 
Tliero  cbildliuud'd  luinti,  aiitl  yuutli'a  gbd 

Have  each  a  mcny  |«al  rung  out; 
(>f  gentle  wom&ti's  {frnwlul  tread, 
In  ikir;  motion  o'er  it  f^^l ; 
Wliile  manhood's  citrc-surchorgnd  lirvori 
A  wdghtier  Btcj  hath  on  it  prcmud  ; 
And  age'«  palsied  fooistcpit  slow, 

There  hut,  pcrcluinvc,  ubruud 
Have  feehl;  tottered  forth  to  idtow 
l"hreescorc-and-ien  iir«i)art-d  to  ^ft— 
Lite'it  journey  trodden  here  below, 

To  lilay  its  steps  with  (jod ! 


See'st  thou  }-ondtir  smiling  boy, 

Just  e:^-niM.-d  hiit  iiuiilicr'ii  annii? 
With  what  eager,  gu^lull|!  joy — 

Ilcedli'ss  of  licr  fond  ulartuit, 
Oiii  ujK>n  that  jmih  he  ^[)^inJ;!i, 
L,i;;lit  as  a  binl  with  fi'nthcred  wing^ 

It iih<;  now  u  fn<!i(-  nui.; 

Walkhig  then  witli  miIkt  [Mice; 
Ami,  Anon,  wih  (-hildi.-h  gnu-c, 
Cit^ting  down  hin  wcjir}'  lonn, 
Willi  unused  »-xertion  wann. 
Oh  tlic  RT^wj'  nwirgin  };i\-in, 
Of  the  imthwiiv  ]).■  i-  in; 
I  )f  that  jKith,  whii-h  thus,  a  rhil<I, 
Tnji<U  In-  lir-l,  will]  ^|iirit.  wil.l.— 
Ut'  ihiil  imih  wliii'h  hi-  lluili  Ina.), 

<  >r'l  in  iiiiiiihiNHrs  diirk'T  ihi}' — 
Wlii-ii  hi:-  weary,  iuliiti;;  liiiul 

(jlailly  wiiiil.1  hi'  M-t'k  to  lay 


With  tlie  «ire-foq;eliing  dead, 
'^'ealh  iti;  graMjr  tuif  for  ajc ! 


King  out !  ring  out !  ■  jovou*  ihogi, 
Fur  tlie  liiir  uiid  gentle  bride! 

^luke  room  !  niake  nxim !  fiir  ibt  pG 
griNiiu, 
In  his  (lathing  and  mull;  pride! 

For  hi'i  bridal's  done— be  hath  wooed  I 

The  flower  of  the  oountir  raiCi 
And  worthy  he  of  hi«  hidy — »fae 
The  fairvHt  of  Engiaod'a  fair  I 

Ring  out !  ring  out !  a  [i riling  ikoH! 

Let  vaAsal  to  vaanl  gkII, 
Each  nervnnl  gay,  in  hia  beM  ann, 

Attend  in  the  ancient  hall; 
For  the  bridal  tnun  riddh  on  aaMh 

And  the  lord  of  thai  hall  doth  CMt 
By  that  path  where,  a  bej,  be  wtmlat 

joy. 

He  bringelu  hit  fair  bridB  h«el 


!  a  !4td  and  a  muffled  toD 
lei-p  churvb-lH-lL  fur  a  parted  m 
liilij,  that  ill  gle«  u'trr  thai  p^ 

H- 

jThu  youth,  lliat  in  beaulj  and  ■■! 

w.d— 
;Th<-  ii;:>d  hml  of  the  cutle  ii  dead! 
Hath  nMe<l  tlie  body  in  iiiliiaiii  i>^ 
And  now  'tis  humn  fran  ilia  laWfc^ 
Siul  its  retainers,  as  mouRrfall^  ibv. 
Over  thiit  Bruien  Path  tbey  go- 
That  (Hiih  through  which,  whca  a(U 

.H; 
Tluit  iwth  by  wliich  hk  Ur  Mde  k  I 
That  ]>ath  o'er  which  ibey  now  boa 
—had ! 

■I'  liny  now  at  you  chmdi-jwdliJ 
now — 'tis  entered — the  p 
1  Ilenieu  Path  will  be  p 


!,., 


ALICE  GARY. 


Alice  Cart,  now  conceded  to  be  one  of  the  most  eminent  writers,  in  prose  and 
verse,  which  this  country  has  produced,  is  a  native  of*  Ohio,  having  been  bom  in  Ham- 
ilton county,  near  Cincinnati,  in  April,  1820.  She  is  descended  from  a  worthy  stock, 
on  her  father's  side  being  of  Huguenot,  Puritan  and  Revolutionary  blood.  During 
tlie  feari*ul  persecution  of  the  Huguenots  in  France,  waged  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
eixteenth  century,  Walter  Cary,  with  his  wife  and  son,  escaped  into  £ngland.  Being 
a  person  of  some  means,  the  father  was  enabled  to  educate  his  son — named  also  Wal- 
ter— liberally  at  Cambridge.  After  taking  his  degrees,  Walter,  jr.  emigrated  to  Amer- 
ica— then  the  land  of  promise  to  all  entertaining  his  views — and  located  himself  at 
Bridgewater,  sixteen  miles  distant  from  the  parent  colony  of  Plymouth.  There  he 
essayed  the  office  of  teacher,  opening  a  "grammar-school" — the  first  in  America. 
Walter  had  seven  sons.  One,  John,  settled  at  Windham,  Connecticut.  He  had  five 
sons, — the  youngest,  Samuel,  being  great-grandfather  to  Alice  and  PhoBbe  Cary. 
Samuel  was  liberally  educated  at  Yale  College ;  and,  having  studied  medicine,  prac- 
ticed successfully  in  Lynn,  Connecticut,  where,  in  1763,  the  grandfather  of  the  sisters 
was  bom.  At  eighteen  he  answered  the  call  "  to  arms ! "  and  served  his  country  faith- 
fully through  the  momentous  struggle  of  the  Revolution.  After  peace  was  declared, 
with  thousands  of  others  scarred  and  bruised  in  their  country's  cause,  he  was  tumed 
upon  the  world  with  no  other  wealth  than  an  honor  unsullied  and  a  stout,  brave,  hope- 
ful heart.  He  took  his  government  "promise  to  pay"  in  lands  in  the  then  North- 
western Territory — settling,  after  much  "prospecting,"  at  what  is  still  the  homestead  in 
Hamilton  county,  where  the  father  of  the  sisters  still  lives,  enjoying  the  honored 
regard  of  that  "Cloveraook"  neighborhood  which  Alice  has  so  exquisitely  daguerreo- 
typed  in  her  "  Cloveraook  Papers,"  and  "  Cloveraook  Children  "  and  "  Country  Life." 

Of  the  mother  of  the  sisters,  long  since  dead,  Alice  writes  :  "  My  mother  was  of 
English  descent — a  woman  of  superior  intellect,  and  of  a  good,  well-ordered  life.  In 
my  memory  she  stands  apart  from  all  others,  wiser  and  puix^r,  doing  more  and  loving 
belter  than  any  other  woman." 

In  the  quiet,  almost  cloistered,  life  at  "  Cloveraook,"  Alice  pa«*sed  the  years  up  to 
1850,  Educational  privileges  were,  in  her  girlhood,  vastly  more  restricted  than  at  tlie 
present  moment ;  but,  to  one  of  her  temperament  and  thoughtful  cast  of  mind,  her 
daily  life  was  a  text-book,  and  communion  with  nature  a  sermon,  which  served  to  in- 
terpret the  profound  mysteries  of  being  and  feeling  more  effectively  than  "schooling  " 
could  have  done  for  her.  For  a  companion  of  her  early  years,  she  had  an  elder  sister 
to  whom  she  thus  refers : — "A  beloved  (elder)  sister  shared  with  me  in  work  and  play 
and  study ;  we  were  never  separated  for  a  day.  She  was  older  than  I,  more  cheer- 
ful and  self-reliant.     I  used  to  recite  to  her  my  rude  verses,  which  she  praised  ;  and 

she  in  turn  told  me  stories  of  her  own  composing,  which  I  at  the  time  thought  evinced 

(343) 


344  ALICr:   GARY.  [1M»A 

wondi^rful  iibility;  and  I  still  tliink  that  sirttor  was  unusually  gifted.  Joat  Miheoae 
into  womanhood — sht*  was  not  yot  sixtoen-^ealh  rtcparatrd  u«,  and  that  event  tiiiae4 
my  di^jMisition,  naturally  nielaiifholy,  into  almost  morbid  gloom.  To  this  day  the  ii 
the  first  in  memory  when  I  wak«',and  the  last  when  I  »ilee|>.  3Iany  of  my  beit  poew 
refer  to  her.  Her  gnive  is  ni'ar  by  th<'  oKl  homestead,  and  the  myrtles  and  roseitf 
my  planting  run  wild  there.*'  Tlieu  followed  years  of  lonelinesfl  which  few  cam  t^ 
preeiato  who  have  not  Iwen  similarly  endowed  mentally,  mid  himilarlj  orranMund 
She  sayp:  ^In  my  memory  th«*re  are  many  lon^,  dark  yean*  of  Iabor>«  at  vaiianorviik 
my  inelinatious,  of  lK'n*av«*men(,  of  constant  struggle,  and  of  hope  d«-fermL*  ThM 
this  life  of  ^Mieririce  and  denial  should  serve  to  de]>ress  a  highly  [loetic  tempefaiBmi» 
not  stnmge.  In  those  years  of  s(*lf-stniggle  we  tind  the  source  of  the  sad  tone  wkkk 
per^'ades  her  earlier,  as  well  as  some  of  her  later,  produeiions. 

The  date  of  Miss  Cary*s  first  elTorts  at  rhythmic  c*om|H)sition  we  have  not.  Al  dK 
agt'  of  eighteen  her  verst*s  were  first  given  to  the  public,  by  the  Cinciimali  preik 
Their  n^o'ption  was  enthusiastic,  surprising  moii;  than  all  others  the  tlaud  aoikpr. 
She.  resolved  to  be  worthy  of  her  evident  tident,  ami  entered  upon  a  patieot  and  thgr- 
ough  study  of  auth(»rs  and  works  calculated  to  d<'Vfl<>p  her  tustc  and  to  pniiBOle  kr 
knowledge  of  the  worltl  and  its  {M*ople.  During  those  years  of  htudj  she 
from  time  to  time,  to  give  her  ])oems  to  tin;  press.  They  ser\'cd  to 
creasing  attention  ;  ami,  ha  has  been  said,  ^otrasional  words  of  cheer  came  lo  ha 
quiet  retri'at  from  some  jtoet  of  fame,  who,  not  knowing  her,  still  wrote  kindlj,  apyw* 
ingly — as  one  bird  an>wers  another  across  the  waters."  [ 

She  thus  grai*efully  and  gratefully  refers  to  those  years  of  study  and  mental  eip»>  ' 
rience :     *'  The  poems  I  wrote  in   those  times,  and  the  pniises  they  won  me,  wcR  M 
my  eager  and  credulous  apprehension  the  projihecies  of  wonderful  things  lo  be  ' 


in  the  future.     Even  now,  whttn  I  am  older,  and  should  be  wL<er,  the  thrill  of 
with  which  I  read  a  hftter  full  of  cordial  encouragfineiit  and  kindneM  from  the 
ing  [MN't,  Otway  Curr}',  is  in  some  sort  renewe<l.     Then  the  voices  that  came 
ingly  to  my  lonesome  and  obscure  life  from  across  tin*  mountainss  how  precioaf  ihij  ■ 
wfp*  to  me !     Among  these  the  ma<t  cht^rished  are  Kdgar  X,  Poe  and  Rufiu  W.  Gii^ 
wold."  I 

In  lAiiO,  Alice  and  Phmbe  left  thi'ir  **Clovernook*'  home  for  the  more  Tariedml 
active  Iit«*  of  the  metro{)olis,  New  York,  and  tlicn^  they  have  since  n»ided,  wm  i n  iifrftf  ! 
pursuing  tlie  career  of  authorship,  and  proving  themselves  worthy  of  their  finck^ 
promise.  ' 

TiK'ir  first  volume  of  ]M)ems  wa<  given   to  the  public  fmm  Philadelphiat  in  IML  ; 
No  "first  Vfdume/'  by  any  American  writer, e\|)eri('nivd  A  more  satisfactory  reoepciaa  | 

In  tlir  vi-ar  following  Alii-e  pnxhicnl  the  first  st-ries  of  **Clovemook  Paperk*  b  . 
suc<-iv-s  was  somewhat  reinarkablf.  Srvenil  large  editions  sold  in  this  couaifjvml  I 
ul-o  in  (ii-eat  Uritain,  when'  tin*  name  of  the  autliitr  lia<  >ini*e  b<H*unie  i 
word.  Wt'  may  In.'  pmnittrd  to  n'uiark  that  th<*se  pa|N*rs  |H>ssesji  tlie  merit  of 
iin/ifi/ — a  nit  lit  now  iM-i-Dining  rarr — the  charactfr>  InMUg  drawn  with  a  po 
prrcrption  whieh  show  how   pnifoiindly  the  writer  ha-«  studied  the  human ^ 


ALICE   GARY.  S45 

is  her  appreciation  of  the  relations  of  life.  Those  early  j-ears  of  retiracj 
lenial  were  not  without  good  fruits  I 

2,  "Iljigar ;  a  Story  of  To-day,"  was  published.*  In  1853  a  second  series  of 
•emook  Papers  "—equally  characterized  as  the  first  series  by  originality  and 
A  leading  journal,  remarking  upon  these  "Papers,"  says:  ** Several  editions 
lished  in  £ngland,  where  they  are  regarded  as  second  only  to  Cooper's  delin- 
'  American  life  and  character.  The  volumes  would  occupy  the  same  place 
,'stiniation,  if  a  present  generation  was  capable  of  a  disuUerested  judgment 
s  familiar  from  |>ersonal  and  literary  associations." 

3,  **Lyra,  and  other  Poems,"  was  published  by  Redfield,  of  New  York, 
me  silenced  contention  as  to  the  relative  standing  to  be  accorded  tlie  author, 
had  asserted  for  her  a  leading  position,  and  this  volume  substantiated  the 
Lyra,"  "In  Illness,"  " Hymn  to  Night,"  "Winter,"  etc,  were  poems  pro- 
nferior  to  none  written  in  America,  in  pathos,  beauty  of  imagery,  exquisite 
^y  and  grace  of  utterance.  The  sad  tone  of  the  poems  served  to  impress  the 
ewhat  unpleasantly,  when  read  in  series ;  but,  judged  as  we  ai'e  bound  to 

every  production,  by  its  own  intrinsic  merits,  no  just  critic  could  refrain 
rding  to  Miss  Gary  the  honor  of  being  one  of  the  "  leading  "  women  in  our 

Clovemook  Children  "  was  published  in  1854,  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  of  Bos- 
s  one  of  the  most  delightful  volumes  in  our  literature  for  young  folks,  and 

large  sale.  In  1855  the  same  house  brought  out  a  more  complete  edition  of 
i  of  Alice.  The  volume  embraced  all  of  "  Lyra  and  other  Poems,"  together 
rs  of  a  brief  character,  written  subsequently  to  1853 ;  and  also  contained  a 
a  more  elaborate,  if  not  of  a  more  ambitious,  character  than  any  the  lady  liad 

to  the  public,  called  "  The  Maiden  of  Tlascahi,"  occupying  seventy-two  pages 
lume.     It  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  few  successful  narrative  poems  yet  produced 
jntry. 
6  Derby  &  Jackson,  of  New  York,  brought  out  Miss  Cary's  "Married,  not 

It  embodied  many  of  the  excellencies  of  "  Clovemook" — the  characters  being 
th  wonderful  fidelity  and  force.  In  1859  the  same  house  issued  her  **Pic- 
Jountry  Life  " — composed  of  contributions  to  leading  periodicals  during  the 
»7- 8  tmd  '9.     The  volume  achieved  new  honors  for  the  author  abroad.     In  a 

several  columns  in  length  the  London  Literary  Gazette  takes  occasion  to 
iLvery  tale  in  this  book  might  be  selected  as  evidence  of  some  new  beauty  or 
yed  grace.     There  is  nothing  feeble,  notliing  vulgjir,  and,  above  all,  nothing 

or  melodramatic.  To  the  analytical  subtlety  and  marvelous  naturalness 
•ench  school  of  romance,  she  has  added  the  purity  and  idealizations  of  the 
ctions  and  home  life  belonging  to  the  English ;  giving  to  both  the  American 
)f  color  and  vigor  of  outline,  and  h(;r  own  individual  power  and  loveliness." 
ve  lately  perused  a  note,  from  Miss  Cary  to  a  friend,  from  which  we  take 
y  of  making  the  following  quotation:     "I  am  ashamed  of  my  work.     The 

*It  WM  written  for  and  first  appeared  in  the  CincinncUi  Comntfrdal. 


:mu 


ALICE   GAKV. 


[iH 


givut  bulk  uf  wiiut  I  huvc  written  is  poor  stuHl  Some  of  iu  il  may  be,  idcImih 
ity  tu  (iu  better — thiit  is  ubout  alL  The  public  has  given  me  mons  encounp*i 
thuii  I  have  luul  reiu^on  to  expeet.  Notwithstiuidiiig  my  diiidatiaifki-tiofi  villi  vl 
have  done,  I  have  Mill  faith  and  1i<>|m.'  in  inys-elf.  I  um  not  diMXMiniged  iMjr  di^ii 
ened  a  whit ;  uiid,  in  my  own  estimation  at  leitst,  I  ^row  a  little  from  jear  to ; 
Not  that  every  thin;j;  is  better  this  year  than  H«mie  thing!)  were  hut.  I  repun  m 
— iuy  ob>ervation.>  an<l  retieetions  nion.%  IkmIvS  iuul  their  >u<n^estiuiiti  le#5.  Thi»  i«  i 
especially  true  of  my  ver>e.  In  my  pix).-e  I  seldom  vtmtureti  oli'  my  native  ^iuil.* 
in  my  earlier  etfurts.  I  think  I  um  more  simple  and  direet — leM  ditfuM;  aii*i  vfK 
iHTt^i  with  ornament  tlian  in  former  years — all  probably  beeauiw  I  have  lived  Im 
and  thouj^ht  more." 

We  ;^ive  this  |KTsonal  ex]>n>ssion  beeaust*  it  seems  to  u.s  in  it^  latter  puj^ilion.  11 
happy  and  appropriate  eharaeterization;  whih:  its  denial  of  merit,  iu  ita  fiivt  po-i: 
is  an  nnnmseious  a(Iniis>i(in  of  hfr  una>?>umin<r  natnrt!  and  betukenA  the  almi»t  e& 
absence,  in  her  dis{iosition,  of  that  e;j:otism  which  renders  Mime  of  our  pre^imi  x 
of  |HK*ts  often  un|»lrasan(  :is  companions  and  corn 'sin indents.  Miab  Carr  i^  Mspb 
her  ta>tes,  nn(»lenta(ions  in  her  >tvle  of  living,  conlidin;;  in  her  dinpuaiitiuD.  hnrti 
Ikt  appreciation  of  giKniness,  charitable  in  her  jud;;menli(  to  a  remarkable  ilr^sr 
hojicful  in  faith,  apeeablc  as  a  companion,  di>|K»<fd  to  constant  deedji  of  ehariij.  ffl 
Ucing  ht^lf-denial  its  a  privilege,  and  living  the  life  of  a  pure,  truly  Chri*tiaB  < 


BALLAD  OF  JKSSIE  CAROU 

I. 

At  her  window,  Jessie  Can»l, 

A>  llie  twilight  dew  distils, 
I*il-in'*  ]»:iek  her  lnavy  tresses, 

I.isieiiinL'  towani  the  northern  hills. 
**]  am  happy,  very  happy, 

Noiit'  >o  nuieh  as  I  am  blc'^t  ; 
N(»iie  ot'  all  tlie  manv  niaiden^^ 

In  tlie  vallev  of  the  West," 
Soflly  ti»  herself  <he  whi^pfiiMl  ; 

I'auseii  sh«'  then  airain  to  hear 
If  tli«-  >ti-p  «if  Allen  Archer, 

'I'lirit  -^he  waiii'il  lor,  wen-  near. 
"All.  In-  know-*  I  lt)\i'  hiin  tlnitllv  ! — 

I  li:i\i-  ni-\er  tniij  hint  -i» ! — 
III  .ill  i>r  mine  I'C  Hot  "o  lii':i\v. 

IL-   w.Ii  i-iilnr  ti>-llijlit,    I    khnW.** 


Rrightly  is  the  full  moon  illiaf 

All  the  withered  wood*  with  U^ 
**ll«f  hiLs  not  tbr^jutten  surely — 

It  was  later  yesiemight!** 
Slaulow>  int«'rhN*k  with  idiadiiw^— 

Sa\>  the  nmiden,  *"Wue  ^  mrr 
In  the  blue  the  eve-c^tar  trembksi 

Like  a  lilv  in  the  M*a« 
Yet  a  gfKMJ  hour  later  MNindrd. — 

Hnt  th«'  northern  woodlands 
Qnick  a  white  h:ind  from  her 

Thni>t  the  hearr  rinesi  awav. 
Liki*  tlie  winp«(  of  n*>tk*M  rvalk^ 

That  a  moment  bni^h  the  drv. 
Anil  again  an-  up  and  upward. 

Till  we  los4*  them  in  the  hhw, 
Were  iIm*  ilioughtin  of  Jekfie  CaniL-' 

For  a  moment  dim  with 
Then  with  ph'st^nt  wave^  of 

On  the  hilU  of  hope  again. 


1840-50.] 


ALICE   GARY. 


S47 


'^  Selfish  am  I,  weak  and  selfish," 

Said  she,  "thus  to  sit  and  sigh; 
Other  firiends  and  other  pleasures 

Claim  his  leisure  well  as  I. 
Haply,  care  or  hitter  sorrow 

Tis  that  keeps  him  from  my  side, 
Else  he  surely  would  have  hasted 

Hither  at  the  twilight  tide. 
Yet,  sometimes  I  can  but  marvel 

That  his  lips  have  never  said. 
When  we  talked  about  the  future. 

Then,  or  then,  we  shall  be  wed  I 
Much  I  fear  me  that  my  nature 

Cannot  measure  lialf  his  pride. 
And  perchance  he  would  not  wed  me 

Though  I  pined  of  love  and  died. 
To  the  aims  of  his  ambition 

I  would  bring  nor  wealth  nor  fame. 
Well,  there  is  a  quiet  valley 

Where  we  both  shall  sleep  the  same ! ' 
So,  more  eves  than  I  can  number, 

Now  despairing,  and  now  blest, 
Watched  the  gentle  Jessie  Carol 

From  the  Valley  of  the  West 

II. 
Down  along  the  dismal  woodland 

Blew  October's  yellow  leaves, 
And  the  day  had  waned  and  faded. 

To  the  saddest  of  all  eves. 
Poison  rods  of  scarlet  berries 

Still  were  standing  here  and  there. 
But  the  clover  blooms  were  faded, 

And  the  orchard  boughs  were  bare. 
From  the  stubble-fields  the  cattle 

Winding  homeward,  playful,  slow, 
With  their  slender  bonis  of  silver 

Pushed  each  other  to  and  fro. 
Suddenly  the  hound  upspringing 

From  his  sheltering  kennel,  whined. 
As  the  voice  of  Jessie  Carol 

Backward  drifted  on  the  wind, 
Backward  drifted  from  a  pathway 

Sloping  down  the  upland  wild, 
Where  she  walked  with  Allen  Archer, 

Light  of  spirit  as  a  child  I 


All  her  young  heart  wild  with  rap- 
ture 

Adid  the  bliss  that  made  it  beat — 
Not  the  golden  wells  of  Hybla 

Held  a  treasure  half  so  sweet ! 
But  as  oil  the  shitting  rose-cloud, 

In  the  sunset  light  that  lies. 
Mournful  makes  us,  feeling  only 

How  much  farther  are  the  skies,— 
So  the  mantling  of  her  blushes. 

And  the  trembling  of  her  heart 
'Neath   his  steadfast    eyes    but    made 
her 

Feel  how  far  they  were  apart. 
"Allen,"  said  she,  **I  will  tell  you 

Of  a  vision  that  1  had — 
All  the  livelong  night  I  dreamed  it, 

And  it  made  me  very  sad. 
We  were  walking  slowly,  seaward, 

In  the  twilight — ^you  and  I — 
Through  a  break  of  clearest  azure 

Shone  the  moon — ^as  now— on  high ; 
Though  I  nothing  said  to  vex  you. 

O'er  your  forehead  came  a  frown, 
And  I  strove  but  could  not  sooth  you — 

Something  kept  my  full  heart  down ; 
Wlien,  before  us,  stood  a  lady 

In  the  moonlight's  pear*y  beam, 
Very  tall  and  proud  and  stately — 

(Allen,  this  was  in  my  dream !) — 
Looking  down,  I  thought,  upon  me. 

Half  in  pity,  half  in  scorn. 
Till  my  soul  grew  sick  with  wishing 

That  I  never  had  been  born. 
*  Cover  me  from  woe  and  madness !' 

Cried  I  to  the  ocean  fiood. 
As  she  locked  her  milk-white  fingers 

In  between  us  where  we  stood, — 
All  her  flood  of  midnight  tresses 

Softly  gathered  from  their  flow, 
By  her  crown  of  bridal  beauty. 

Paler  than  the  winter  snow. 
Striking  then  my  hands  together, 

O'er  the  tumult  of  my  breast, — 
All  the  beauty  waned  and  faded 

From  the  Valley  of  the  West!" 


:m8 


ALICE   CARY. 


In  the  board  of  Allen  Archur 

Tw !>((*( I  then  hi.«  lingers  uiiite, 
As  he  suid,  "I^Iy  p'nile  Jfssif, 

You  niu!«t  not  be  siul  to-night ; 
You  must  not  h<»  sjmI,  my  Josie — 

You  are  over  kind  un<l  g<HKl, 
And  I  fuin  wouM  niidce  you  hupfty, 

Very  happy — if  I  could ! " 
on  he  kis»e<l  her  cheek  and  fon^heod, 

Called  her  darling  oA,  but  said, 
Kever,  that  he  Iove<i  Imt  fondly, 

Or  that  ever  thoy  should  wed ; 
But  that  he  was  grieved  that  shadows 

Should  Imve  ehilled  so  dear  a  heart; 
Tluil  the  time  fon;told  so  often 

Then  was  eonie — and  they  must  part! 
Shook  her  l>o>om  then  with  passion, 

Hot  her  forehea«l  bunit'd  with  jMiin, 
But  her  lips  said  only,  *^\.llen, 

"Will  you  ever  roni«'  again?** 
And  he  answercil,  lightly  dallying 

"With  her  tresses  all  the  while. 
Life  had  not  a  star  to  guide  him 

Like  the  beauty  of  her  smile ; 
And  that  whrn  the  com  was  ri{>ened 

And  the  vintage  harvest  pres«M, 
She  would  see  him  home  returning 

To  the  Vallty  of  the  "WesL 

"When  the  moon  hatl  vaile«l  her  splendor, 

And  Wfiit  lesM'ning  <]()wn  the  blue, 
And  along  the  eastern  hill-tops 

Burned  the  morning  in  the  dew, 
Tln'y  had  parti'd— <'aeli  one  f«M*ling 

That  their  livt's  had  .<*rpanite  ends; 
Thry  had  i>arte<I — iifiihrr  hapjiy — 

Ij*>s  than  lovers — more  tlaui  friends. 
For  iLi  Jes>ie  mus4*d  in  .sih*nei'. 

She  rememlMTi'tl  that  h(*  Miid, 
N«-Vf'r,  that  he  1ov«m1  her  fondly. 

Or  that  ever  they  should  wed. 

'Twas  full  many  a  namel*'*-;  meanin<; 

Mv  iM>or  wnnN  <'aii  n<*vrr  .siv, 
Vr\i  wiiliout  the  n<'<'fl  of  uit'T.uire, 

That  h:ui  won  her  h«'art  awav. 


O  the  days  were  weary !  wewj ! 

And  the  evc»  were  dall  and  lon^ 
With  the  erieket*B  chirp  of  wanom^ 

And  the  owlet'M  moamlal  flon^ 
But  in  slumber  oft  fthe  started 

In  the  still  and  loneMme  ni^tf^ 
Hearing  but  the  traveler's  fboturp 

ilurr}'ing  toward  the  village  ligkL 
So,  moaned  by  the  druarj  winter- 
All  her  household  taiiks  fidtilM— 
Till  beneath  the  laMt  yearns  laAen 

Came  the  i^walloa-it  back  to  boikL 
Meadow-pinkfy  like  flakes  of  criMO^ 

Over  all  the  valleys  lay. 
And  again  were  oxen  plowing 

l^p  and  down  the  hilb  all  day. 
Thus  the  dim  day«  dawned  and  Ud 

To  the  maid,  IbrMaken,  lorn, 
Till  the  fn^shening  breese  of 

Shook  the  tassels  of  the 
f^ver  now  within  her  cl 

All  night  kMig  the  lanp-ligkt 
But  no  white  luind  fnim  her 

Pushes  bark  the  heavy 
On  her  eheek  a  tire  was  feedingi 

And  her  liand  transparent  gttw^ 
Ah,  the  faithless  Allen  Arcber! 

More  than  she  had  dreamed  wai  tM 

No  <*(>m  plaint  won  ever  altered 

Only  to  herself  she  s^hed^^ 
As  sh(»  read  of  wretched  poets 

Who  had  pined  of  love  and  dM 
One<*  slie  crushed  the  sudden 

Fnim  her  trembling  lips  away. 
When  they  said  the  vintage 

Had  been  gathered  in  that  day. 
OtWn,   when    they  kissed  lier» 
she, 

8:iying  that  it  soothed  her 
And  that  tliev  must  not  be 

She  w(»uld  soon  be  well  t^gait! 
Tliuo  nor  lu»ping  nor  yet  fearing 

Meekly  iNtrif  >he  all  her  paiUi 
Till  the  nil  leaves  of  the 

"Whhen-d  from  the 


ALICE   CAIiY. 


349 


bird  had  hushed  its  singing 
i  silvery  sycamore, 
nest  was  lefl  unsheltered 
i  lilac  by  the  door ; 
Btill,  that  she  was  happy — 
so  much  as  she  was  blest — 
'  all  the  many  maidens 
!  Valley  of  the  West. 

ui. 

le  heath  and  o'er  the  moorland 

1  the  wild  gust  high  and  higher, 

f  the  maiden  pauses 

ing  at  the  cabin  fire, 

ck  from  her  taper  fingers 

away  the  flaxen  thread, 

neighbor  entering,  whispers, 
e  Carol  lieth  dead." 
;  pressing  close  her  forehead 
B  window-pane  she  sees 
at  men  to'^ethor  diorffing 
•neath  the  church-yard  trees. 

asks  in  kindest  accents, 

she  happy  when  she  died?" — 

all  the  while  to  see  them 

the  heavy  earth  aside ; 

I  their  mattocks  leaning, 

igh  their  fingers  numb  to  blow, 

wint'ry  air  is  chilly, 

the   grave-mounds   white   with 

w; 

ncighl)or  answers  softly, 
lot^  dear  one,  do  not  cry ; 
reak  of  day  she  asked  us 

thought  that  she  must  die ; 
?n  I  had  told  her,  sadly, 
I  feared  it  would  be  so, 
he,  saying,  '  'Twill  be  weary 
ng  in  the  church-yard  snow !  * 
I  said,  '  was  very  dreary — 
its  paths  at  best  were  rough;' 

whispered,  she  wa*:*  ready, 
!ier  life  was  long  enough, 
ly  serene  and  silent, 
le  wind  that  wildly  drove. 


Soothed  her  from  her  mortal  sorrow, 

Like  the  lullaby  of  love." 
Thus  they  talked,  while  one  that  loved 
her 
Smoothed  her  tresses  dark  and  long, 
Wrapped  her  white  shroud  down,  and 
simply 
Wove  her  sorrow  to  this  song  I 

IV. 

Sweetly  sleeps  she !  pain  and  passion 

Bum  no  longer  on  her  brow — 
Weary  watchers,  ye  may  leave  her — 

She  will  never  need  you  now ! 
While  the  wild  spring  bloomed  and  faded, 

Till  the  autumn  came  and  passed, 
Calmly,  patiently,  she  waited — 

Rest  has  come  to  her  at  last  I 
Never  have  the  blessed  angels, 

As  they  walked  with  her  apart, 
Kept  pale  Sorrow's  battling  armies 

Half  so  softly  from  her  heart 
Therefore,  think  not,  ye  that  loved  her. 

Of  the  pallor  hushed  and  dread, 
Where  the  winds  like  heavy  mourners, 

Cry  about  her  lonesome  bed. 
But  of  white  hands  soflly  reaching 

As  the  shadow  o'er  her  fell, 
Downward  from  the  golden  bastion 

Of  the  eternal  citadeL 


PICTURES  OF  MEMORY. 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall. 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest. 

That  seemeth  the  best  of  alL 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden. 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe. 
Not  for  the  violets  golden. 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below ; 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies, 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  hedge. 


XiO 


ALICE   GARY. 


[IMM 


I 


(.'(H plotting  all  (lay  with  tho  ^uiiboami^ 
And  stealing  th«>ir  golden  cdgu ; 

Not  for  tli«*  viiu*s  on  the  upland 
Where  the  liright  red  borrie:^  rest. 

Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale  sweet  cowslip, 
It  seemeth  to  me  the  \tosU 

I  <Hiee  had  a  little  brother 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep — 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lietli  in  |>eaee  ib>Ieep; 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Fri*e  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  n)ved  there,  the  iMuiutiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago ; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And,  one  of  the  Autumn  eves, 
I  made  for  my  little  hmther 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 
Sweetly  his  jmle  arms  folded 

My  neek  in  a  meek  embraee, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face. 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Loiiged  in  the  tree-lo|>s  bright, 
lie  fell,  in  his  siunt-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light, 

Tiierefore,  of  all  the  pictures 
That  hang  on  Memory's  widl, 

The  one  of  tin*  dim  old  forest 
SiM.'Uieth  the  best  of  alL 


Ont<!tn>tchf^l  l)eneath  the  vencnUe  tnek 
C  oniiing  his  k>ng,  bard  taak,  tlw  fcfaoo^ 
lM>y  lies. 
And,  like  a  fii'kle  wooer,  the  li|dit  hntm 
Ki-««*s  hi>«  brow,  then,  acuoely  ■gfr^ 
flies ; 
And  all  ai»out  him  pinks  and  lifiet 
Painting  with   beaut j  the  wide 
kind. 

Oh,  there  are  moments  when  we  half  fil^ 

get 

The  nmgh,  liarsh  grating  of  the  ik  cf 
Time ; 
And  I  that  bidieve  ang«;ltf  cone  don  Jrt 

A       •  .  r  *  *.  rn  And  walk  with  us  us  in  Kden  cbacL 

A  *[  ii't  M-n>e  of   prarr  my  spu'il  nll-»,  •.--*«.         «Mm  ^        i 

■      %       1  •  ,1    1  4"     »     .  .      4*  .......  ..1      ..  r      Hindini:  tlie   heart  away  fran   woe  »■ 

'         !;!..hl   wiih   the  ni>h  of  H.klrs  on  ih.-;  '"^'*'*''*- 

Wiih  Iravc^  of  healing  from  theTWcv 


HAUVi:<T  TIMR 


Where  straight  and  even  the  new  fanovi 

lie,  $ 

The  cornstalks  in   their  rising  besiiv 

stand ; 
Heaven's  loving  smile  upon  man's  mi»tn 
Makes  beautiful  with  plentj  the  viik 

land. 
Tlie  bams,  pn*sscd  out  with  the  sweet  Lit. 

I  see. 
And  feel  liow  more  than  good  God  i*  u 

me! 

In  the  cool  tliicket  the  red  robin  na^ 

And  merrily  before  the  mower's  mik 

ChiqH  the  green  graAshopper,  while  ibvii 

swings. 

In   the  scarce-swaying  air,  the  wiSon 

lithe ; 

And  eUmds  sail  softly  thnwgh  the  ippe 

calms, 
White  as  the  fleeces  of  the 


(i«»ii's  Idissing  on  ihr  reapers  I    all  day 


lnr>;r 


I  ■  ■  I 


Ar»  I  :'•    !  ■!:;«•  \\II<1  ll'iwi-r-.  anil  gn  »  n  hrirr- 

|i  i". I- 
An     1»:"_:.ily    t:in;:l<  •!    wiili    the    yellow 

^luavi'S. 


Liti'. 

Anil  ih'-y  are  most  unworthy  whobeUJ 
The  boinitiful  provisions  of  GodTs  ctf^ 


ALICE 

GARY.                                                         861 

apers  sing  among  the  harvest-gold, 

Or  picking  jagged  leaves  from  the  slim 

tie  mown  meadow  scents  the  quiet 

spikes 

Of  tender  pinks — ^with  warbled  interfuse 

.  who  never  say,  with  all  their 

Of  poesy  divine. 

t, 

That  haply  long  ago 

d,  my  Father,  oh,  how  good  thou 

Some  wretched  borderer  of  the  realm  of 

Wrought  to  a  dulcet  line; — 

If  in  your  lovely  years 

There  be  a  sorrow  that  may  touch  with 

tears 

The  eyelids  piteously,  they  must  be  shed 

LYRA. 

For  Lyra,  dead. 

The  mantle  of  the  May 

J,  whose  tresses  shine, 

Was  blown  almost  within  the  Summer's 

with  daffodil  and  eglantine, 

reach, 

their  stringed  buds  of  brier-roses, 

And  all  the  orchard  trees, 

;  the  vermeil  closes 

Apple,  and  pear,  and  peach, 

twilights  afler  sobbing  rains, 

Were  full  of  yellow  bees, 

n  in  rippled  skeins 

Flown  from  their  hives  away. 

len  tangles  low 

The  callow  dove  upon  the  dusty  beam. 

)ur  bosoms,  dainty  as  new  snow ; 

Fluttered  its  little  wings  in  streaks  of 

le  warm  shadows  blow  in  softest 

light. 

8 

And  the  gay  swallow  twittered  full  in 

awthom  flowers  and  cherry  blos- 

sight ; 

s  white 

Harmless  the  unyoked  team 

your  kirtles,  like  the  froth  from 

Browsed  from  the  budding  elms,  and  thrill- 

3 

ing  lays 

rinmied  with  milk  at  night. 

Made  musical  prophecies  of  brighter  days; 

3 wing    heifers    bury   their  sleek 

And  all  went  jocundly.     I  could  but  say. 

ks 

Ah  I  well-a-day! — 

ws  of  sweet  hay  or  clover  banks — 

What  time  spring  thaws  the  wold, 

ar  and  hear,  I  pray, 

And  in  dead  leaves  come  up  sprouts  of 

led  roundelay. 

gold. 

;  creeping  vines  overrun  the  sunny 

And  green,  and  ribby  blue,  that  after-hours 

J 

Encrown  with  flowers ; 

vQct  souls,  I  watch  your  shining 

Heavily  lies  my  heart 

ds, 

From  all  delights  apart. 

rith  stained  hands 

Even  as  an  echo  hungry  for  the  wind. 

leafy  cups  with  lush  red  strawber- 

When  fail  the  silver-kissing  waves  to  un- 

• 

> 

bind 

in  murmurous  glooms, 

The  music  bedded  in  the  drowsy  strings 

V  mosses  full  of  starry  blooms, 

Of  the  sea's  golden  shells — 

at  ease — each  busied  as  she  likes, 

That,  sometimes,  with  their  honeyed  mur- 

ipping  from  the  grass  the  beaded 

murings 

s, 

Fill  all  its  underswells ; — 

ALICE   CAKY. 


Fur  ci'cr  iIk>  suiinliini-  Mi  a  ahwlow  wide 

Wli(.'ii  pul>er  Auiuiun,  wilti  liis  niUt-bound 

Si[ri  ilrt-iiril/  brncaili  the  fuiliiig  bouglu, 
AikI  rliu  niitu  rhilljr  nM, 
A\  riiijss  I'roiu  liis  IkumI  of  pilil,  ; 

And   lis  MHiic  cuiiilort  lor  bid  loric-Hjiut:. 


COltTRAPICTORY. 

Wk  onntntdirtoiy  cKaturrf 
Ilnvc  rampttongniuftRKea  tnoorfaiA 
Ttuit  dotJi  mifiiM  iMiHth  the  inflaiir. 

Whilf  Howntmnl  tfaraugli  dor  namM 
Kuntulvciy>>  t]iuu|chi9,llMloa')y  findMji 
j^iir,^  I     In  tlie  \>out,  iN^riKtiablr  thiop  of  nttL 

Hiib-s   ill   bin  boHiiii  hIhIIcm  uf  vitlmvd 

itowrK.  I     Bliiully  we  f.fl  aboul 

I  tbink  aboul  wbal  l.-avps  are  droopiitgloHr  ii„i.:,.in.iH_^.vpr  oo  ihe  qoM 

<>t'  ktKiwb-il'ir,  whit-b  »  only,  al  tbf  li< 


A  sinoutbly  sba]M-n  mouti<l; 
Ami  if  tlK  wild  wind  rr'tea 
W'UvTv  Lym  lies 
Swi'i'l  shi'i^bi-nls  i^ofily  blow 
Diiiii's  iiio>l  «id  aJid  Uiw — 
Pi|iiti<;    un    bullow    ivtil!*    to    > 

]     ("jilm  bi-  luy  l.yrsiV  slii'|>, 

I     L'liivxi'd  witli  dn-iiiituf  tbc  rougli  briers 

iii«t  ,...n 

I     From  his  cirayL-d  buiilM  ibi-  woolt 
•     Ub.  stiir,  lluir  ircinbU'-l  dim 

riHui  till'  welkin's  rim. 
I     Send  with  tliy  milky  hluiduwD  frvm  abow 
I     'ridinifH  alHiut  my  Ifivi' ; 

If  iltiii  rtaw  envidUN  w:tvc 

Ma<b'  bi*  untinx-ly  {tnivv, 
!     Or  if.  -1. -^iD.'nin;;  bill'  i 


I'u^'liin;;  the  boundarim  of  oar  iptmw 


liut  wliDc  we  know  aO  (hiap  an  ainrlei 

And  ibnt  we  ranmil  trt 
(^'"  I  An  Mr  »f  com.  nnr  tell  a  bU»  tf  pM 
,Tbc  way  Id  prbw,  flur  vanity  o'cnwtik 
Tlx-  limit  of  oiir  wiMfem.  and  w«  jtt 

Anilitt'iun>Iy  oVrpaM 

Thi-  nomiw  jirunionloi^ 
Of  low.  iliirk  tnnd.  inio  tlie  udmcb  ^^, 

And  with  iinluillimi-d  wal 
I'nto  our  li'Uuw-nu-n  God*«  juc 


W.- 


wlioi 


i<>  Hlon;!  iIh>  ftlooiB 
I  u  tnivt-ler.  i>lrikbig  I 


Miikfih  a  lilllf  "wint  and  under  figfal 

To  bl.<* onr -i^'bl. 
And  i-liim;?'  iheflnud^aiwindn 
lull)  ifli-iiii)  slui|H.'i>,  and  Uib  ii 


ny  wild  n-grete, 
I     Soil),  <-<.^<■rli.l  »f  bliiix  viuli-ls 
i     Wii-  ,-..f(ly  [.lit  a-id.-. 
!     AVLi>  tliiir  li.'di.-.t: 
I     Nil},  ■riiiii'  iKii.  ]>ii<H>n-  maids 

,     I>iii  k''<-|>  vimr  tri  .»•■>  fruwiit'd  asymi  may       Moni  comrtb.  (railing  i>tornu, 

:      Wjl).  .  ;!l:i'iirili.-  ;tn<l  diill'.-lillii->  pn.  ;  Va-U  Mhih-  >.ti<-  Wukcrt  a  thoUMSd 

Ami  hiili  Ibi-  dvvti-  it(  inyrllc-  wu'li  your  ]>-:ilinv 

I'll.  I'k'.  I     And  uith  her  pddm  calma 

'     Win  n  D.miy  ^^mnk-.  '      All  lli.   wid.- xalky  fill*  ; 

i     I  iriiiiniii^  il.<-  >.T:iy  ori.tit.  hdl  of  m«ni— |     Ihirkly  th<y  !>••  U-kkw 
WInl.-  1.  li.i'li.rn.  |      Th<-  |.iir|.lc  lin — lb«  pkiw, 

ri.iii' idl   i»\  lirun  ill  I>  ;ir^  iiiLiI  [diiints  in-  Wh'-r- .   mi   ibi'   lii;;h  lofM  of  Um 


hill-. 


r  I-j 


.  .l<'n<l. 


Sill-  I 


>is  111- 


cloudy  a 


••] 


ALICE   GARY. 


353 


e  are  like  the  momiog — ^heavenly 


^ht 


ig  about  our  heads,  and  th'  dumb 
ght 

us  and  behind  us ;  ceaseless  ills 
Qp  our  years ;  and  as  from  off  the 
lis 

hite  mists  melt,  and  leave  them  bare 
id  rough, 

t  from  us  the  fancies  of  our  youth, 
ve  stand  against  the  last  black  truth 
f  and  cold,  and  desolate  enough. 


WORSHIP. 

s  no  seasons  and  no  times 
hink  of  heaven — often  at  night 
3  on  a  stair  of  rhymes, 
find  the  way  exceeding  bright ; 
0-  some  accidental  good 
;ht  by  me,  saints  have  near  me  stood. 

>t  think  my  heart  is  hard 
ond  the  common  heart  of  men, 
et  sometimes  the  best  award 
tes  on  it  like  a  stone,  and  then 
>eam  that  may  brightly  stray 
ay  window,  makes  me  pray. 

)wer  I've  found  in  some  chance  nook, 
ing  its  wild  heart  to  the  bee, 
.ught  me  meekness  like  a  book 
written  preaching;  and  to  see 
)m-fields  ripe,  an  orcluuxl  red 
ade  me  bow  in  shame  my  head. 

mostly  in  God's  works  I  see 

[  feel  his  love,  I  make  my  prayers, 

ithout  form  or  formulae 

heart  keeps  Sabbath  unawares, 

Y  the  peace  that  comes,  I  know 

»rship  is  accepted  so. 


A  LOVER'S  PASTmp. 

Beforb  the  daybreak,  I  arise, 
And  search,  to  find  if  earth  or  air 

Hold  any  where 
The  likeness  of  thy  sweet,  sweet  eyest 

In  nature's  bo(^ 
Where  semblances  of  thee  I  trace, 
I  mark  the  place, 
With  dowel's  that  have  a  bleeding  look. 

For  pity,  gentleness  and  grace, 
With  lilies  white ; 
And  roses  that  are  burning  bright 
I  take  for  blushes :  then  I  catch 
The  sunbeams  from  the  jealous  air, 

And  with  them  match 
The  amber  crowning  of  thy  hair. 

The  dews  that  shine  on  withering  wood, 

Or  thirsty  lands, 
Quietly  busy  doing  good, 

Are  like  thy  hands. 

The  brown-eyed  sunflower,  all  the  day 

Looking  one  way, 
I  take  for  patience,  made  divine 
By  melancholy  fears,  like  thine. 

Ere  break  of  day 
I'm  up  and  searching  earth  and  air. 

To  find  out  where, 

If  find  I  may, 
Nature  hath  copied  to  her  praise 
The  beauty  of  thy  gracious  ways. 

The  wild  sweet-brier 
Shows  through  the  brook  in  many  a  place ; 
But  for  the  smiling  in  thy  face, 

She  would  not  have  her  good  attire. 

Sometimes  I  walk  the  stubbly  ways 

That  have  small  praise. 
But  spy  out,  ne'ertheleas, 
Some  patch  of  moss,  all  softly  pied, 
Or  rude  stone,  with  a  speckled  side, 

Telling  thy  loveliness. 


23 


354 


ALICE   CARY. 


[XM» 


I  mako  lu'lievc  the  brooks  that  run 

With  pleasant  noise, 
From  sun  to  shade,  and  shade  to  sun, 

Mimic  thy  murmured  joys. 

So,  dearest  heart, 
I  cfieut  the  cruelty 
That  keeps  us  all  too  long  apart, 

With  many  a  poor  conceit  of  tliee. 

The  son^  of  binls, 
Flimting  the  orchani  tops  among, 
K<*ho  the  music  of  thy  tongue ; 
And  fancy  tries  to  find  what  words 

Come  nestling  to  my  breast 
With  melody  so  excellently  dress'd. 

Before  the  daybreak,  I  arise, 
And  sean^h  throu<rh  earth,  and  sky,  and  air. 
But  find  I  never  anv  where 

The  likeness  of  thy  sweet,  sweet  eyes, 
3Iy  modest  lady,  my  exceeding  fair. 


And  k(*ep  your  little  white  fingcn  lUl 
Away  from  his  golden  ringiL 

Ye  meadow  lilies,  leopard-like^ 
Under  the  mould,  so  deep, 

Croudi  close,  an<l  k«*ep  your  fpoltti  ok 
For  a  month  yet,  &»t  aslec|k 


Trust  not,  ye  modest  violeUi 
ilis  promises  to  you. 

Nor  dare  u|)ou  his  fickle  smile 
To  broaden  your  kerrfaiefSi 


TO  THE  MARCn  n.OWERS. 

Kr.F.p  your  muddy  covers  close,  flowers, 

Nt»r  dan*  to  open  your  eyes. 
For  all  this  month  your  lover,  the  Sun, 

Will  only  tell  you  lies ! 

He  will  only  tell  you  li«»s,  flowers, 

Pri'lty,  and  undesi;rned. 
For  tlimii^rli  this  n)u;rh  and  cloudy  month 

He  never  knows  his  mind. 


The  (laffodil  may  look  at  him 

With  Ikt  hri;j:lil  aini  aM;;ry  eyes, 
But   jiiik^  tliat  nm\*'  with   tin  ir  In-art'*  m  Di-ablrd,  ^tailed  in  hahitV  deep-vonf^ 
tlnir  nmutlis 

Mii^t  wait  Inr  wann<T  ^kios. 


Ye  little  twinkling  marigoVk, 
*Tis  wise  sometimes  to  doabC, 

And   though  the  wind  hImmiU  ihikt  h 
moans 
To  music,  look  not  out. 


Tis  a  rough  and  churlish  montk, 

So  heed  ye  my  advioei 
Else  you  will  wake,  to  go  to  de^ 

With  cheeks  as  cold  u 


PENITENCE. 

O,  I  AM  sick  of  what  I  un  I    OTal 
Which  I  in  life  can  ever  hope  to  k; 
An<reU(  of  light  be  pitiibl  tt>  mt^ 
And  build  your  while  wingi  muBd  wftU 

a  wall ; 
And  save  me  from  the  thought  of  wirtk 

btH.»n, 
In  days  and  years  I  have  no 


O  d:ii-ie<,  ^\i\y  in  your  prassy  house, 
Ye  |KM>r  dehidf'<I  things. 


My  lali<ir  U  a  vain  and  empCj 
A  uorl<><i  turrpin;;  at  ihe  wheels  of  B 
i  Afti-r  the  vital  temlons  all  are  cut: 

I  1iav«*  no  pteti,  no  aiTnimenC 

Only  your  love  can  save 


140-50.] 


ALICE   GARY. 


355 


he  evil  I  have  done  I  do  deplore, 
And  give  my  praise  to  whom  it  doth  be- 
long 
For  each  good  deed  that  seemeth  out  of 


wrong 


n  accidental  step,  and  nothing  more. 

reasure  for  heavenly  investment  meant, 

like  a  thriflless  prodigal,  have  spent. 

• 
am  not  in  the  favor  of  men's  eyes. 

Nor   am   I   skilled   immortal   stuff  to 

weave ; 
No  rose  of  honor  wear  I  on  my  sleeve, 
0  cheer  the  gloom  when  that  my  body 

lies 
n  unrigged  hulk,  to  rot  upon  life's  ford — 
he  crew  of  mutinous  senses  overboard. 

Tiat  shall  I  bring  thy  anger  to  efface. 
Great  Lord?    The  flowers  along  the 

summer  brooks 
In  bashful  silence  praise  Thee  with  sweet 

looks, 
at  I,  alas !  am  poor  in  beauty's  grace, 
nd  am  undone — lost  utterly,  unless 
[y  faults  thou  buriest  in  thy  tenderness. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

:  was  a  sandy  level  wherein  stood 
This  old  and  lonesome  house, — ^far  as 

the  eye 
ould  measure,  on  the  green  back  of  the 

wood. 
The  smoke  lay  always,  low  and  lazily. 

own  the  high  gable  windows,  all  one  way, 
Hung    the   long,  drowsy   curtains,  and 

across 
he  sunken  shingles,  where  the  rain  would 

stay. 
The  roof  was  ridged,  a  hand's  breadth 

deep,  with  moss. 


The  place  was  all  so  still  you  would  have 
said, 
The   picture  of  the    Summer,  drawn, 
should  be 
With  golden  ears,  laid  back  against  her 
head, 
And  listen  to  the  far,  low-lying  sea. 

But  from  the  rock,  rough-grained  and  ice- 

encrowned. 
Some  little  flower  from  out  some  deft 

will  rise; 

And  in  this  quiet  land  my  love  I  found, 

With  all  their  soft  light,  sleepy,  in  her 
eyes. 

No  bush  to  lure  a  bird  to  sing  to  her — 
In  depths  of  calm  the  gnats'  faint  hum 
was  drowned. 

And  the  wind's  voice  was  like  a  little  stir 
Of  the  uneasy  silence,  not  like  sound. 

No  tender  trembles  of  the  dew  at  close 
Of  day, — ^at  mom,  no  insect  choir ; 

No  sweet  bees  at  sweet  work  about  the  rose, 
Like  little  housewife  fairies  round  their 
fire. 

And  yet  the  place,  sufiused  with  her,  seemed 
fair- 
Ah,  I  would  be  immortal,  could  I  write 
How  from  her  forehead  fell  the  shining 
hair. 
As  morning  falls  from  heaven — so  bright  I 
so  bright  I 


FAITH  AND  WORBB. 

Not  what  we  think,  but  what  we  do, 
Makes  saints  of  us — all  stiff  and  cold. 

The  outlines  of  the  corpse  show  through 
The  cloth  of  gold. 

And  in  despite  the  outward  sin — 
Despite  belief  with  creeds  at  strife. 


356 


ALICE   GARY. 


[UM 


The  principle  of  love  within 
Leuvens  the  lite. 

For,  'tis  for  fancied  good,  I  claim, 

That  men  do  ^Tong,  not  wrong's  desire, 

Wrapping  themselves,  as  'twere,  in  flame 
To  cheat  the  fire. 

Not  what  God  gives,  but  what  he  takes. 
Uplifts  us  to  the  holiest  height ; 

On  truth's  rough  crags  life's  current  breaks 
To  diamond  light. 

From  transient  evil  I  do  trust 
That  we  a  final  good  shall  draw ; 

That  in  couf  usion,  death  and  dust 
Are  light  and  law. 

That  He  whose  glory  shines  among 
The  eternal  stars,  descends  to  mark 

This  foolish  little  atom  swung 
Loose  in  the  dark. 

But  though  I  should  not  thus  receive 
A  sense  of  order  and  control. 

My  God,  I  could  not  disbelieve 
My  sense  of  soul. 

For  though  alas,  I  can  but  see 

A  hand's  breadth  backward,  or  before, 
T  am,  and  since  I  am,  must  be 

Forevermore. 


MY  CREED. 

I  DO  not  think  the  Providence  unkind 
That  gives  its  bad  things  to  this  life  of 
ours. 
They  are  the  thorns  wheroby  we  travelers 
blind. 
Feel  out  our  flowers. 

I  think  hate  t^hows  the  quality  of  love. 
That  wrong  attests  tliat  somewhere  there 
is  right : 


Do  not  the  darkest  shadows 
The  power  of  light? 


lop 


On  tyrannous  wi^  the  feel  of  Frad 
press — 
The  green  bough  broken  «^  kli  i 
shine  in ; 
And  where  sin  is,  aboundeth  ri|^teoMB 
Much  more  than  sin. 

Man  cannot  be  all  aeMBh     leperm  fsi 
Is  nowhere  found  beneath  the  sIud 
sun: 

All  adverse  interests,  truly 
Resolve  to  one  1 


I  do  believe  all  wonhip  doCh 

Whether  from  temple  floon  by  httA 
trod. 
Or  from  the  shrines  where 
es  blend. 
To  the  true  God : 


Blessed  forever— that  His  love 
Tlie  raven's  food^-the  qiunoVsMdi 


And,  simple,  sinful  as  I  am,  He 
Even  for  me. 


BLESSED  LOTS. 

''Love!  blessed  Love!  if  wteouHkfl 
our  walls  with 
Tlie  rod  coats  of  a  thousand  rosy  Xi* 
Surely  they  would  not  shine  so  wsD  mAi 
do8t. 
Lighting  our  dosty  dafk 


'^  Without  tlifH',  what  a  dim  and 
Our  yean  would  be,  oh, 
lime ! 

Slip  of  the  life  eteraal,  hri^htlf 
In  the  low  soil  of  tiBol* 


0.] 


ALICE    GARY. 


367 


TRACTS  FROM  VARIOUS  POEBIS. 

ON  lake,  in  her  valley  bed  lying, 
xwks  &ir  as  a  bride, 
1  pushes,  to  greet  the  sun's  coming, 
ler  mist  sheets  aside.** 


"The  attempt 
the  wedge  that  splits  its  knotty  way 
xt  the  impossible  and  possible." 


"I  would  scorn 
(weakness  of  submission,  though  to 
[lat 
miserable  chance  were  narrowed  up." 


not  the  outward  garniture  of  things 

1,  through  the  senses,  makes  creation 

iir, 

le  out-flow  of  an  indwelling  light 

jives  its  lovely  aspect  to  the  world." 


e,  Dillie !  the  white  vest  of  morning 
h  crimson  is  laced ; 
rhy  should  delights  of  Grod's  giving 
running  to  waste?" 

bird  may  fly  in  its  own  atmosphere ; 

om  the  long  dead  reaches  of  black 

pace 

e  wings  fall  back  baffled.     So  it  is 

Grods  and  men :  each  have  their  at- 

losphere 

1  they  are  free  to  move  in,  and  to 

rhich 

ampler  quests  they  needs  must  floun- 

er  down." 


sweetest  sound  would  tire  to-night — 

be  dew-drops 

ting  the  green  ears  in  the  com  and 

rheat, 


Would  make  a  discord  in  the  heart  at- 
tuned to 
The  bridegroom's  coming  feet," 

"  Now  in  the  field  of  sunset,  twilight  gray, 

Sad  for  the  dying  day. 

With  wisps  of  shadows  binds  the  sheaves 

of  gold, 
And  Night  comes  shepherding  her  starry 

fold 
Along  the  shady  bottom  of  the  sky." 

"  For  sometimes,  keen,  and  cold,  and  piti- 
less truth, 
In  spite  of  us,  will  press  to  open  light 
The  naked  angularities  of  things. 
And  from  the  steep  ideal  the  soul  drop 
In  wild  and  sorrowful  beauty,  like  a  star 
From  the  blue  heights  of  heaven  into  the  . 
sea." 

"  The  old  astrologers  were  wrong :  nor  star, 
Nor  the  vexed  ghosts  that  glide  into  the 

light 
From  the  unquiet  chamels  of  the  bad, 
Nor  wicked  sprite  of  air,  nor  such  as  leap 
Nimbly  from  wave  to  wave  along  the  sea. 
Enchanting  with  sweet  tongues  disastrous 

ships 
Till  the  rough  crews  are  half  in  love  with 

death. 
Have  any  spell  of  evil  witchery 
To  keep  us  back  from  being  what  we 

would. 
If  wisdom  temper  the  true  bent  of  ns." 

^^  Borders  and  plaits  of  red  and  sapphirine 
Are  pretty  in  the  robe  of  royalty ; 
But  to  the  drowning  man,  who  strives  against 
The  whelming  waves,  the  gaud  were  cum- 
bersome. 
And  straightway  shredded  off,  and  wet, 

wild  rocks 
Hugged  to  his  bosom  with  a  closer  clasp 


:wiK 


ALICE   CARY. 


[IMM 


Than  the  young  inothi»r  to  her  haby  pivca. 
When  from    his    Htemly  footing   hungry 

Death 
Goes  moaning  back,  the  time  has  come  to 

pluck 
The  honorable  gear." 

"Nay,    down   with    youUi   are    my   de- 
sires— 

Life  has  no  pain  I  f<»ar  to  meet ; 
£x)K*rience,  with  its  awful  fire!!>, 

Melts  knowledge  to  a  welding  heat 

**  And  all  its  fires  of  heart  or  brain, 

Where  purpose  into  power  was  wrought, 

I'd  bear,  and  gladly  bear  again. 

Rather  than  be  put  back  one  thought 

"  For,  could  you  mould  my  det^tiny 
As  clay,  within  your  loving  hand, 

I'd  leave  my  youth's  sweet  company, 
And  suffer  back  to  where  I  stand." 

"WTiat  though  I  yet  have  my  gown  to 
spin? 

He'll  kiss  my  shoulders,  and  hide  them  in 
Ripples  of  rose-red  blushes — 
And  I  shall  be  dressed  with  blushes.** 

*•  You  must  not  leave  me  thus,  Jenny — 
You  will  not,  when  you  know 

It  is  my  hfe  you're  treading  on 
At  every  btep  you  go. 

*•  Ah,  should  you  smih*  as  now,  Jenny, 
When  the  wint'ry  weather  blows. 

The  daisy,  waking  out  of  si«'t?p. 

Would  come  up  through  ihe  snows." 

"  Wait  vet  a  little  lonjrer !  hear  me  tell 
llow  much  my  will  transcends  my  feeble 

|)Owers : 
A"*  one  with  blind  eyes,  feeling  out  in 
fU^wers 
Their  tender  hues,  or  with  no  skill  to  spell 


Hid  poor,  poor  name,  but  only  maiei  h 

mark, 
And  guesses  at  the  winsbine  in  iKe  dui 
So  I  have  been.    A  aeme  of  ifamp  4 


vme. 


Lying  broad  above  the  little  thingi  I  kie« 

The  while  I  made  my  poemft  tar  m  up 

Of  the  great  melodies  I  felt 


^Come,   Poesy,  and  with   thy 
hands 
Cover  me  softly,  singing  all  the  nifk- 
In  thy  dear  presence  find  1  bert  deligll 
Even  the  saint  tliat  stands 
Tending  the  gate  of  heaveo,  inTohei  ii 
beams 
Of  rarest  glory,  to  my  mortal  cyci 
Pales  from  the  bless'd  intanity  of  dioBi 

That  round  thee  lies. 
Unto  the  dusky  borders  of  the  giofe 
Where  gray-haired  Satuniy  dku  m  i 

stone. 
Sat  in  his  grief  alone. 
Or,  where  young  Venus,  searching  tat  ha 
love. 
Walked  through  the  clouda,  I  pnj, 
Bear  me  to-nig)it  away. 


^  Or  wade  with  me  through 

Drifted  in  loose  fantastic 

From   hunjble  doun  when  Loft  m 
Faith  abide, 
And  no  rough  winter  blowa, 

ChiUing  the  beauty  of  aflfeoliQaa  ttf 

Cabini'd  M'curely  there, — 
Where   round  their  fingcn   winihg  A 
whiti*  Mi|>s 

That  crown  his  forehead,  oo  the  pmi 
sire's  knees, 
Sit  merry  chiMn*n,  teasing 

La«t  in  the  perilous  seal 
Or  listening  witli  a  troubloiu  joj,; 

To  .-tories  about  battles  or  of 
Till  weary  grown,  and  drowaiBg  iilaib^ 

Slide  tliey  from  out  hii 


PHCEBE  GARY. 


PncEBE  Cary  was  born  in  the  year  1825,  at  the  old  "  Clovernook  "  homestead,  in 
[amilton  county,  Ohio.  There  she  lived  up  to  womanhood — a  companion  of  her  sis- 
r  Alice — living  apart  from  the  great  world — learning  life  and  nature  in  their  actual- 
ies, — feeling  much,  dreaming  much,  hoping  much,  but  realizing  little  of  the  satisfac- 
m  which  spnngs  from  the  consciousness  of  merit  recognized,  of  worth  appreciated, 
he  history  of  Phoebe's  life  is  written  in  the  life  of  Alice  Cary ; — their  lives  ran  to- 
other like  the  chords  of  the  duet,  and  their  hearts  gleaned  like  lessons  from  their 
immon  experiences. 

Phcebe  commenced  writing  for  the  press  in  her  seventeenth  year.  Her  early  efforts 
lowed  the  influence  of  a  home-life  and  a  constant  communion  with  nature ; — they 
ere  filled  with  tenderness,  and  pervaded  with  the  true  poetic  apprehension.  No  in- 
»nsiderable  success  followed  upon  her  earlier  efforts,  and  caused  her  to  be  regarded 
ith  such  favor  that  the  '* poet-sisters"  was  the  expresssion  used  to  characterize  her 
id  the  elder  sister. 

When,  in  1850,  the  sisters  removed  to  New  York — as  stated  in  the  sketch  of  the 
*e  of  Alice — their  fame  had  preceded  them.     They  became  the  object  of  much  notice 

literary  circles,  and,  by  their  united  labors,  fiilfilled  the  expectations  excited  by  the 
illiancy  of  their  western  debik. 

The  first  volume  by  the  sisters,  was  given  to  the  public  in  1849.  It  embraced  the 
)ems  of  both  Alice  and  Phoebe  which  already  had  been  publi>hcd  in  the  papers 
id  magazines  of  the  day.  Up  to  1854  Piioebe  continued  to  write  for  the  press, 
ways  with  acceptance  to  the  public  In  that  year  her  volume,  ^  Poems  and 
arodies,**  was  given  publicity  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  of  Boston.  It  first  informed  the 
iblic  as  to  the  authorship  of  parodies  on  popular  poems,  which  had  excited  much 
tention  and  had  had  an  extensive  republication. 

The  poems  of  the  volume  were  chiefly  short  compositions,  embodying  sentiment  and 
Qcy  rather  than  the  higher  forms  of  ideality,  in  their  musical  rhythm.     They  served 

show  the  poet  in  a  pleasing  light.     The  parodies,  however,  were  too  '^representa- 

e  "  to  bear  any  other  than  a  reputation  for  unique  and  original  characterization. 
Tiile  they  preserved  the  form  and  likeness  of  the  originals,  they  still  possessed  such 
imor  and  quaint  sentiment  quaintly  expressed,  as  to  render  them  perfect  poems  of 
e  ludicrous  in  themselves ;  and  they  will,  doubtless,  long  remain  among  the  best  par- 
ies in  our  literature.     While  we  are  disposed  to  question  the  taste  and  propriety 

these  travesties  of  the  beautiful,  their  own  inherent  humor,  satire  and  ludicrous 
lagery  cannot  be  denied  the  tribute  of  a  very  broad  smile,  if  not  of  a  hearty,  chest- 
•m  laugh ;  therefore  we  will  be  excused  for  inserting  here  the  most  "characteristic  " 

those  parodies — on  Bayard  Taylor's  "Manuela,  a  Ballad  of  California" — Henry  W. 

mgfellow's  "  Psalm  of  Life  "—and  "  The  Day  is  Done ;  "—Oliver  Goldsmith's  *'  When 

Dvely  Woman  Stoops  to  Folly,"  and  James  Aldrich's  "Death-Bed." 

(^59) 


360 


PIICEBE   GARY. 


[ISIMI 


MARTHA  UOPKLNS. 


A    BALLAD    OF    IVSIABA. 


From  the  kitchon,  Martha  HopkinM, 
AsriiCHtands  there  making  piMt, 

Soathward  lookis  along  tho  turnpike, 
With  her  hand  alx)ve  hi-r  vy*"*  : 

m 

Where,  along  the  dintant  hill-oide, 

Her  yearling  heifer  feedn, 
And  a  little  gram  Ia  growing 

In  a  mightj  sight  of  wtedji. 

All  the  air  is  fiill  of  noises, 

Fur  there  iraH  any  kIiooI, 
And  boys,  with  tumed-up  pantaloons, 

Arc  wading  in  the  pool ; 
Blithely  frisk  unnumbered  chickens, 

Cockling,  for  they  cannot  laugh ; 
Where  the  airy  Hummita  brighti'U, 

Nimbly  leaps  the  little  calf. 

Gentle  eyes  of  Martha  Hopkins! 

Tell  me  wherefore  du  ye  gaze 
On  the  ground  that*H  being  furrowed 

For  the  planting  of  the  maize  ? 
Tell  me  wherefore  down  the  valley 

Ye  have  traced  the  tumpike*s  way, 
Far  beyond  the  cattle-pasture, 

And  the  brick-yard,  with  its  clay? 

Ah !  the  dogwood- tree  may  blossom, 

And  the  door-yard  grass  may  shine, 
With  the  tears  of  amber  dropping 

From  the  washing  on  the  line. 
And  the  morning's  breath  of  balsam 

Lightly  brunh  her  fn-ckli'd  cheek, — 
Little  recketh  Martha  Hopkins 

Of  the  talcs  of  Spring  they  speak. 

When  thi*  Summer*s  burning  Kolstice 

On  the  scanty  harvest  glowed. 
She  hod  watched  a  mun  on  hurheliack 

Riding  down  the  turnpike-n>ad ; 
Many  tiincM  t^he  naw  him  turning. 

Lo<.>king  backward  quite  ftirlom. 
Till  amid  her  tears  she  Idst  him, 

In  the  shadow  of  the  bum. 

Ere  the  supper-time  was  over. 

He  ha<]  paswd  the  kiln  of  brick, 
Cnxwd  the  niching  Yellow  River, 

And  hail  fonlnl  quite  a  eni>k. 
And  IiIh  Hat-lNiat  Umd  was  taken. 

At  the  liuK*  for  ]M>rk  ami  U'aus, 
With  thi>  tradiTK  of  the  WulMfih, 

To  th«'  wharf  ut  New  Orleans. 


Therefore  watches  Martha  HnyMi^ 

Holding  in  her  haod  tht  pMi. 
Wlieu  the  soiuid  of  distui  fooMcfi 

Seems  eiactly  like  a  nan^ ; 
Not  a  wind  the  stove-pipe  ralte, 

Nor  a  door  behind  her  Jai% 
But  she  seems  to  hear  the  latlk 

Of  his  letting  down  the  bai& 


Often  sees  she  men  on 

Coming  down  the  tnmpike 
But  they  come  not  ■■  John  Jackma, 

She  can  see  It  well 
Well  she  knows  the  I 

Of  the  sorrel  hone  he  heep% 
As  he  jogs  along  at  Idnre, 

With  his  bead  down  like  a 


She  woald  know  him  *nild  a 

By  his  home-made  coat  and  ti 
By  his  socks,  which 

Such  as  farmere  wear  anl 
By  the  color  of  his 

And  his  saddle,  which 
By  a  blanket  which  was  takoi 

For  that  purpose  tkom  the  be£ 

None  like  he  the  joke  of  YUkmy 

On  the  unbroken  oi 
None  amid  his  father'a 

Use  like  him  the  spade 
And  at  all  the  apple-cnttipii, 

Few  indeed  the  men  are 
That  can  dance  with  hin  the 

Touch  with  him  the  TloUa. 

He  has  said  to  Martha  Hopkta% 

And  she  thinks  she  hean  hln  M 
For  hhv  knows  as  well  ai  can  ht^ 

That  he  meant  to  keep  hk  tow, 
When  tho  back«*ye-tn!« 

And  your  ancle  plants  hli 
Shall  the  bilhi  of  Indiaaa 

UnhLT  in  the  wedding 


He  has  pictiin-d  his  rel 

Each  in  Sunday  hat 
And  he  think)*  hell  get 

And  they'll  sp«*nd  a  day  la  ■»•■  f 
That  thtir  love  will  nevly  Undk^ 

And  what  comfort  it  will  ^tt% 
To  sit  down  l>y  the  flnt  brtakte^ 

In  the  cabin  where  theyll  Bf& 


10-50.]                                              P  H  (E  B  E 

GARY.                                                        361 

Tender  eyes  of  Martha  Hopkins  t 

But  her  eager  eyes  rekindle. 

What  has  got  yoa  in  such  scrape? 

She  forgets  the  pies  and  bread. 

Tis  a  tear  that  falls  to  glitter 

As  she  sees  a  man  on  horseback. 

On  the  mffle  of  her  cape. 

Round  the  comer  of  the  c^ed. 

Ah !  the  eje  of  love  may  brighten, 

Now  tie  on  another  apron. 

To  be  certain  what  it  sees, 

Get  the  comb  and  smooth  your  hair, 

One  man  looks  much  like  another, 

Tis  the  sorrel  horse  that  gallops. 

When  half  hidden  by  the  trees. 

Tis  J<^  Jackson's  self  that's  there  1 

A  PSALM  OF  LIFK 

« 

Tei.l  me  not  in  idle  jingle, 

Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Mamage  is  an  empty  dream. 

Be  a  woman,  be  a  wife  I 

For  the  girl  is  dead  that's  single, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant  I 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  I 

Married  life  is  real,  earnest ; 

Act,— act  in  the  living  Present : 

Single  blefwedness  a  fib ; 

Heart  within,  and  Man  ahead  I 

Ta'en  from  man,  to  man  retomest. 

Has  been  spoken  of  the  rib. 

Lives  of  married  folks  remind  us 

We  can  live  our  lives  as  well. 

Not  ei^oyment,  and  not  sorrow. 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 

Such  examples  as  will  tell ; — 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Nearer  brings  the  wedding-day. 

Such  examples,  that  another, 

Sailing  far  fh>m  Hymen's  port, 

Life  is  long,  and  youth  is  fleeting, 

A  forlorn,  unmarried  brother. 

And  our  hearts,  if  there  we  search. 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  and  court 

Still  like  steady  drums  are  beating 

Anxious  marches  to  the  church. 

Let  us  then  be  up  and  ddng. 

With  the  heart  and  head  begin  ; 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

In  the  bivouac  of  life, 

Learn  to  labor,  and  to  win  I 

THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 

The  day  is  done,  and  darkness 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 

From  the  wing  of  night  is  loos'd, 

And  banish  the  pain  I  feel. 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 

From  a  chicken  going  to  roost. 

Not  from  the  pastry  baker's, 

Not  from  the  shops  for  cake. 

I  Bee  the  lights  of  the  baker 

I  wouldn't  give  a  farthing 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  mist, 

For  all  that  they  can  make. 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  I  cannot  well  resist 

For,  like  the  soup  at  dinner. 

Such  things  would  but  suggest 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing. 

Some  dishes  more  substantial. 

That  is  not  like  being  sick, 

And  to-night  I  want  the  best 

And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  a  brickbat  resembles  a  brick 

Go  to  some  honest  butcher, 

Whose  beef  is  fhish  and  nice 

Come,  get  for  me  some  supper, — 

As  any  they  have  in  the  city. 

A  good  and  regular  meal. 

And  get  a  liberal  slice. 

362 


PIKE  BE   GARY. 


[Iftl^ 


^iicb  thinps  through  days  of  Ubor, 

And  ui^bt(«  devoid  of  eaM*, 
For  fuul  and  dcvperute  foi'lings, 

Are  wondiiful  nruiodii'B. 

They  have  an  aittoninhing  power 

To  aid  aud  rcH'uforc(% 
And  come  like  the  "  Fiimlly,  lirethren,'* 

That  fullows  a  long  ditfcourse. 


Thou  gi'K  me  a  tender  ibioia 
Fnim  off  the  bench  or  book. 

Aud  lend  to  its  sterUqg  foodaeM 
The  science  of  the  cook. 

And  the  night  riull  be  filed  wiih 
And  the  cam  with  which  it  bcfoa 

Shall  fold  up  tbHr  blanketo  like 
And  ailentlj  cut 


"WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN." 


Whkn  lor  ply  woman  wnnt»  a  favor, 
And  findn,  t(N)  lute,  (hut  man  wont  h<>ndr 

What  earthly  circumstance  can  have  her 
From  diKap|>ointment  in  the  end? 


The  only  way  to  briof  hla 
The  laitt  expmnent  to  try. 

Whether  a  hni4nnd  or  a  lovfr. 
If  he  have  feeling,  la,  to  ay! 


TUE  WIFE. 


But  when  tho  ran  In  all  ill 
Illumed  the  enitim  lUo^ 

She  paiwed  aliout  the  kltcbeo 
And  went  to 


IIkk  washing  endt'd  with  the  day, 

Vet  livi'd  hIic  at  itn  c1(nh.\ 
And  pawed  the  long,  lung  night  away, 

In  darning  rag^dl  h<>:*e. 

Miss  Gary  has  pul>lishe«l  no  volume  sincv  l^<.')i,  but  has  continued  to  write  tatm 
best  tiia;;aziiic.s  aiul  we«>lcly  journals.  She  is  one  of  tliose  poets  who.  while  thtircB 
trihutions  do  not  create  particular  remark,  still  are  ever  welcome  and  popohr.  fci 
to  be  hoiH>d  that  she  will  f^utiier  her  hiter  |)oems  in  tlie  more  readable  and  prnaiw 
form  of  a  book.  Such  a  volume  would  serve  to  ;;ive  her  distinctive  poaitioii  ■■■ 
our  ]M>ets  of  sentiment  and  fancy. 

Of  (he  |»oi't,  a  critic  who  knows  her  well,  writes: — ^Phoebe  Gary  »  a  deli^ 
and  a  p'uial  iriend.  She  has  in  her  luitun'  a  v«'in  of  sunny  philoflophr,— fork 
p'niu*>  for  seeinjv  the  worM,  and  the  {H'ople  in  it,  in  such  a  pleasant  light,  thtf  fl 
{rn>w>  Ixtt^T  and  happirr  in  her  pri'MMice.  The>e  qualities,  combined  vitk  ate 
reli;;ious  faitli,  which  finds  its  unw:iverin^  center  in  the  prorai^e,^  of  God,  make  kr 
hannonious  and  liap|>y  woman.  In>t(*ad  of  iM'inrr  fritrhttul  with  wrinkle^  the  if  ni 
ant  with  dimples — has  jet-Mack  hair  and  eye>,  and  li;;hts  up  gloriooftlj.  Shrk 
written  many  t«'nd«-rly  iM-autifiil  thin;;s.  Her  |N>etry.  thou^rh  pos.4e4#ing  aone  of  A 
clianu-teri^tics  of  that  of  Alice,  has  a  marked  individuality  of  its  own.*" 

The  extnicts  which  follow,  an*  chosen  without  {tarticular  care  from  thote 
within  our  reach.     Tht>y  are  such  as  ulmu-^t  weekly  fall  from  her  pen,  and,  we 
such  as  will  serve  to  show  tlie  ]>oet's  ]»owers  in  their  most  truthful  UighL 


PH(EBE   GARY. 


363 


EQUALITY. 

red  lady  in  the  land, 

n  bear  your  scorn  or  pride ; 

ruest  wealth,  to-day, 

n  equal  by  your  side  I 

»arentage  have  you — 

ir  Father,  one  our  Friend ; 

nheritance  awaits 

oing,  at  the  journey's  end. 

flight  your  thought  can  take — 

no  firmer  basis  rest ; 
2  dreams  of  fancy  wake 
T  tumult  in  your  breast. 

ave  lovers,  many  score, 
r  always  at  your  call  t 
friend,  so  good  and  true, 
lot  give  him  for  them  all. 

r  most  triumphant  hour — 
's  perfect  consciousness — 
land  lips  have  praised  your  face, 
ch  Sowings  of  your  dress, 

know  the  quiet  joy, 
ch  one  friend  my  heart  can  thrill, 
ve  made  some  simple  dress 

and  he  has  praised  my  skill ! 

ring  to  you  every  good 
om  a  Father's  hand  can  fall ; 
lips  have  said  to  me, 
ou,"  I  have  known  it  all  I 


In  his  great  mountains,  standing  grand  and 
hoary, 
And  in  the  star-lamps  swinging  over- 
head, 
I  recognized  the  grandeur  and  the  glory 

About  him  spread. 

I  saw  the  wine  gush  out  from  full  red 
presses. 
The  water,  that  keeps  singing  as  it  runs, 
And  said,  how  liberally  the  Father  blesses 

His  thankless  sons. 

In  the  free  rain,  that  swells  the  buried 
treasure, 
In  the  white  harvest  field's  thick-bearded 
crop, 
I  saw,  how  from  his  good  hand,  without 
measure, 

His  riches  drop. 

And  I  believed  that  he  would  always  hear 
me. 

Care  for  me  now,  and  raise  me  from  the 

dead. 

Only  he  was  not  brought  down  very  near 


me. 


For  all  I  said. 


RSHTPING  AFAR  OFF. 

t  whitely,  from  the  lily's  white- 

j  from  the  morning-glory's  cup, 
;  dew-drop,  I  had  seen  God's 
less 

Flash  proudly  up. 


I  did  but  stand  within  the  outer  portal, 

I  was  below,  and  he  was  far  above, — 
I  loved  him  not,  until  I  loved  a  mortal. 

As  mortals  love. 

For,  though  he  may  trust  God,  and  wor- 
ship purely. 
Who  but  his  commonest  blessings  under- 
stands, 
The  hun^^an  heart  is  touched  by  him  most 
surely 

With  human  hands. 

And  through  its  deepest  love,  our  God  unto 
us, 

Clearly  and  perfectly,  himself  reveals, 

All  faith  believed,  and  all  to  which  hope 

drew  us, 

Love  knows  and  feels. 


364 


PIICEBG   GARY. 


[IMM 


RECONCILED. 

O,  YKARfl,  gone  down  into  the  past ; 

What  pleasant  memories  come  to  me, 
Of  your  untroubled  days  of  peace, 

And  hours  of  almost  ecstasy ! 

Yet  would  I  have  no  moon  8tand  still, 
Where  life's  most  pleasant  valleys  lie ; 

Nor  wheel  the  planet  of  the  day 

Back  on  his  pathway  through  the  sky. 

For  though,  when  youthful  pleasures  died. 
My  youth  itself  went  with  them,  too; 

To-day,  aye  !  even  this  very  hour, 
Is  the  best  hour  I  ever  knew. 

Not  that  my  Father  gives  to  mo 

More  blessings  than  in  days  gone  by ; 

Dropping  in  my  uplifted  hands 
All  things  for  which  I  blindly  cry : 

But  that  his  plans  and  purposes 

Have  grown  to  me  less  strange  and  dim; 
And  where  I  cannot  understand, 

I  trust  the  issues  unto  him. 

And,  spite  of  many  broken  dreams, 
This  have  I  truly  learned  to  say — 

Prayers,  which  I  thought  unanswered  once, 
Were  answered  in  God's  own  best  way. 

And  though  some  hopes  I  cherished  once 
Peri>hed  untimely  ere  their  birth. 

Yet  have  I  bei;n  beloved  and  blessed 
Beyond  the  measure  of  my  worth. 

And  sometimes  in  my  hours  of  grief, 
Fur  momenta  I  have  come  to  stand 

Where  in  the  sorrows  on  me  laid, 

I  feh  the  chastening  of  God  s  hand ; — 

Then  learned  I  that  the  weakest  ones 
An*  krpt  se«nin*Pt  fn>m  lifr's  harms; 

AikI  that  tli<'  t<'nd<T  himbs  alone 
Are  carried  in  the  shepherdV 


And,  sitting  by  the  wayside  bliodt 
He  18  the  nearest  to  the  fi|^ 

Who  erieth  out  moft  eameillj, 
**•  Lord,  that  I  might  reoeiYe  my 


O  feet,  grown  weary  as  ye  walk. 
Where  down  life's  hill  my  patlnri^  ii 

What  care  I,  while  my  Mol 
As  the  young  eagle  BMmnIi  tkt 

O  eyes,  with  weeping  fiided  ati, 
What  matters  it  how  dim  ye  be? 

My  inner  vision  sweeps  andred 
The  reaches  of  eternity  I 

O  death,  most  dreaded  power  of  all. 
When  the  last  moment  tanm,  and  tki 

Darkenest  the  windows  of  my  m/d^ 
Through  which  I  look  oa 


Yea,  when  mortality  disralreii 
Shall  I  not  meet  thine  hour 

My  house  eternal  in  the  hea' 
Is  lighted  by  the  smile  of  God! 


THE  FANTASY. 


Okcr,  charmed  by  thy 

And  listening  to  thy 
As  woman,  hearing  ail  the  whiles 

I  think  could  never  hear  too 


I  had  a  pleasant  fantasy, 
Of  souLh  that  meet,  and, 

And«  hearing  that  same  d 
I  said  I  lo%'ed  thee,  O  my 


That  was  the  flood-tide  of  my 
And  now  its  calm  waves 

I  cannot  tell  if  it  were  tnith» 
Nur  whether  I  do  love  or  i 


fiomthn 
1 


PHCEBE   GARY. 


366 


9  and  nights  pass  pleasantly, 
ely  on  the  seasons  glide ; 
ugh  I  think  and  dream  of  thee, 
im  of  many  things  beside. 

gerly  thy  praise  is  sought ; 
weet  to  meet  and  sad  to  part  * 
my  best  and  deepest  thought 
den  from  thee,  in  my  heart 

ame  not  that  my  love  is  less 
should  repay  thy  heart's  desire ; 
igh  I  give  thee  only  this, 
!  thee  all  thou  canst  inspire. 


IMPATIENCR 

e  mocking  daylight  never  be  done? 
moon  her  hour  forgetting  ? 
'  sun !  0  merciless  sun ! 
lave  grown  so  slow  in  setting ! 

f  if  the  days  could  come  and  go 
»t  as  I  count  them  over, 
»uld  seem  to  me  like  years,  I  know, 
ley  brought  me  back  my  lover. 

[irough  the  valleys,  down  to  the 

\t  wind,  go  with  fleetness, 

th  your  kisses,  his  perfect  mouth, 

)ring  to  me  all  its  sweetness. 

1  he  lieth  in  slumber  deep, 

mt  your  arms  about  him, 

r  if  he  whispers  my  name  in  sleep, 

ell  him  I  die  without  him. 

that  sail  the  air  like  ships, 

3  such  discord  bringing, 

leard  the  sound  of  my  lover's  lips, 

?ouId  be  ashamed  of  your  singing  I 


0  rose,  finom  whose  heart  such  a  crimson 
rain 

Up  to  your  soft  cheek  gushes, 
You  could  never  show  your  &ce  again, 

If  you  saw  my  lover's  blushes  1 

O  hatefiil  stars,  in  hateful  skies. 
Can  you  think  your  light  is  tender. 

When  you  steal  it  all  from  my  lover's  eyes. 
And  shine  with  a  borrowed  splendor  ? 

O  sun,  going  over  the  western  wall, 
K  you  stay  there  none  will  heed  you ; 

For  why  should  you  rise  or  shine  at  all 
When  he  is  not  here  to  need  you  ? 

Will  the  mocking  daylight  never  be  done  ? 

Is  the  moon  her  hour  forgetting? 
O  weary  sun  I  O  merciless  sun  I 

You  have  grown  so  slow  in  setting  I 


WANTS  AND  BLESSINGS. 

No  gifl  of  poesy  is  mine, 

To  bring  me  either  friends  or  fame ; 
I  have  not  written  any  line 

To  link  remembrance  with  my  name ; 

No  wealth,  to  take  with  open  palms 
Its  blessings  to  the  poor  and  weak— - 

Not  of  my  charities  and  alms 
Has  any  tongue  a  right  to  speak. 

I  have  no  beauty  in  my  face. 

Where  roses  bloomed  not  in  its  prime ; 
The  brown  grows  darker,  and  I  trace 

Daily  the  deepening  lines  of  time. 

Yet  to  me  friends,  most  kind  and  true, 
A  little  of  their  love  have  given ; 

I  have  my  blessings,  though  but  few. 
Some  trust  in  man,  much  fidth  in  heaven — 


36<: 


rilCKBE   CARY. 


(!»». 


Faith  that  our  Lord's  great  sacrifice 
lliitli  {K^wiT  to  save  u-i  from  the  fall 

Anil  lio{)(s  through  00(1*8  abounding  grace. 
To  find  forgiveness — tliis  is  alL 


THE  MINDS  POSSESSIONS. 

TiiF.UR  is  no  c*omfort  in  the  world 
hut  I  in  thought  have  known, 

"So  bliss  for  any  human  heart 
I  cannot  dntam  iny  own ; 

And  fancied  joys  may  oAen  be 

Mure  n.>al  tliaii  reality. 

I  have  a  house  in  which  to  live, 

Not  gnind,  but  wvy  good, 
A  heart h-tin.>  always  wann  and  bright, 

A  IxKUti  witii  daintiest  food ; 
And  I,  when  tried  with  care  or  doubt, 
Go  in  and  shut  my  sorrows  out. 

I  have  a  father,  one  whose  thought 
Goes  with  me  when  I  roam ; 

A  mother,  watching  in  some  door 
To  see  her  child  come  home ; 

And  sisters,  in  whose  dear  eyes  shine 

Such  fondness,  looking  into  mine. 

I  iiave  a  frieiul,  who  sees  in  me 

What  none  beside  can  see, 
'Wiio,  looking  kindly  on  me,  sjiys, 

**  Drar,  vou  an*  <lear  to  me !  '* 
A  fri«'nd,  whose  smile  is  never  dim, 
And  I  can  ner<T  change  to  him. 

Mv  bovs  are  v«tv  ;r«'nth»  Im»vs, 
AihI  whi-n  1  ^«'i'  tln-m  ;rn>wn, 

Tli.  x'p'  InpT,  br:i\»'r.  n«»blt'r  nn-n 
'i'liaii  any  I  li:ive  known; 


And  all  my  girls  are  fiur  and  food. 
From  infancy  to  wonunhood. 

So  with  few  blessings  men  an  tn, 
Or  I  myself  could  name. 

Home,  love,  and  all  tliat  lore  en  kra 
My  mind  has  power  to  claoa, 

And  life  can  never  cea«e  to  be 

A  good  and  pleasant  thing  to  m^ 


CnRISTMASL 

0  cniLD !  with  spirit  light  and  pj, 
And  voice  as  pleasant  at  a  biidi 

Yours  is  a  merry  Christmat-dayy 
Mine  is  too  happy  for  that  «wd! 

Changing  and  evanescent ;  rack 
Are  all  your  hopes  and  all  joor 

I  My  joy  cxi*ecdeth  yoiin  at  miNk 
As  doih  the  measure  of  my  jeai& 


Your  pleasure  every  chance 

It  lies  without  your  own  eootral ; 

While  all  my  best  and  parert  jofp 
Have  tiieir  deep  souroea  in  mj 


Together,  your  possoMiont 
Not  s(»nie  bekiw,  and 

I've  learned  more  wisely  to  i 
The  treasures  of  my  hope 


'  You  (*hange  from  rapture  to 

VTiih  every  change ;  Pre  oome  li  bi 
'  The  value,  and  the  worth]e«fiieM» 

Of  all  tiiat  we  can  get  behm. 

So  have  I  leanitnl,  wliat  yet  yoa  will 
Wiii-n  up  tf>  mine  your  feet  haiePi' 

Tni^t  in  iny^i-ll*,  and  Itelter  stilly 
Tru.'-t  in  His  cri\itur&s  tmd  ia  GoL 


SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 


RAH  T.  Barritt  was  born  at  Newport,  Kentucky,  in  the  year  1820.  Her 
'  was  the  youngest  son  of  Lemuel  Barritt,  who  distinguished  himself  as  an  offi- 
i  the  American  War  for  Independence.  He  was  an  experienced  soldier  when 
ar  began.  When  Earl  of  Dunmore  was  Governor  of  the  Colony  of  Virginia,  he 
Ted  upon  him  the  command  of  an  exploring  expedition  to  the  junction  of  the 
hany  and  Monongahela  nvers.  Mrs.  Barritt,  Sarah's  mother,  was  a  daughter  of 
f  the  Pendletons  of  Virginia,  who  was  a  cousin  t6  James  Madison, 
len  Sarah  was  about  three  years  old,  her  father  removed  to  Jennings  county,  In- 
His  cabin  was  one  of  the  first,  around  which  the  wilderness  was  broken,  in 
►art  of  the  State.  He  was  not  well  satisfied  with  frontier  life,  and  while  Sarah 
ct  a  little  girl,  changed  his  residence  to  Madison.  There  his  daughter  was  given 
3st  education  which  that  town  aflorded.  Before  she  was  fourteen  years  of  age, 
rrote  verses  of  which  her  friends  were  proud.  When  not  more  than  sixteen 
old,  several  of  her  poems  were  published  in  a  newspaper  at  Madison,  which  was 
I  by  Nathaniel  Bolton.  Writing  for  the  paper  led  to  an  acquaintance  with  the 
r,  and  that  acquaintance  resulted  in  mannage. 

the  early  settlement  of  Indiana,  Mr.  Bolton  had  acquired  valuable  property,  and 
g  assumed  responsibilities  for  others  as  well  as  for  himself,  during  the  financial 
ers  of  1837-38,  became  much  embarrassed. 

described  by  William  C.  Larrabee,  in  a  biographic  notice  of  Mrs.  Bolton  written 
e  Ladie^  Repository  at  Cincinnati : 

txtricate  himself  fh)m  his  difBculties,  he  opened  a  tavern  on  his  farm,  a  short  Stance  west 
city  of  Indianapolis.  Mrs.  Bolton,  then  scarcely  seventeen  years  old,  foond  herself  encom- 
with  the  care  of  a  large  dairy,  and  a  public  house.  To  aid  as  much  as  possible  in  relieving 
(:baud  from  embarrassment,  she  dispensed  with  help,  and  with  her  own  hands,  often  for  weeks, 
Dnths,  performed  all  the  labor  of  the  establishment.  Thus,  for  nearly  two  years,  this  child  of 
,  to  whom  song  was  as  natural  as  to  the  bird  of  the  greenwood,  cheerfully  resigned  herself 
-ssant  toil  and  care,  in  order  that  she  might  aid  her  husband  in  meeting  the  pecuniary  obliga- 
rhicb  honesty  or  honor  might  impose.  During  those  long  and  dreary  years,  of  toil  and  self- 
she  wrote  little  or  nothing.  At  last  the  crisis  was  reached,  the  work  kccompllshed,  and  the 
o  long  caged  and  tuneless,  was  again  free  to  soar  into  the  region  of  song. 

len  Mr.  Bolton  was  enabled  to  return  to  Indianapolis,  he  took  possession  of  a 
jottage,  which  has  ever  since  been  the  home  of  the  family.  There  Mrs.  Bolton 
t  up  her  long-neglected  lyre  and  gracefully  invoked  the  Muse : 

Come  to  mo,  gentle  Muse !  hast  thou  forsaken 

The  heart  that  trembled  in  thy  smile  so  long  ? 
Come!  touch  my  spirit  harp-string,  and  awaken 

The  si)ell,  the  soul,  the  witchery  of  song. 

Too  long  have  I  been  bound  in  Care's  dominion  ; 
Thou,  only  thou,  canst  break  the  strong  controL 

(367) 


368 


SARAH    T.   BOLTON. 


[1N»^ 


Come,  with  thy  radiant  brow  and  vUnj  pinion. 
And  bring,  again,  the  sanlight  to  mj  aouL 

I  met  thee,  fairest  one,  in  childhood*!  hoan, 

And  wanden-d  with  thee  over  dale  mod  hill, 
Conventing  with  the  stars,  the  Btrvams,  the  flowen ; 

I  loved  thee  then,  and  oh  t  I  love  thee  ■tllL 

Come  to  me !  Life  Is  all  too  dark  and  dreary 
When  thoa,  my  guiding  spirit,  art  not  near ; 

Coma  1  I  have  sought  thee  till  mj  heart  if  weary. 
And  still  I  watch  and  wait    Appear !  appear ! 

In  a  notice  of  Mrs.  Bolton's  poetry,  written  for  the  CblmMam  ami  Onti  VoC 
1850,  William  D.  Gallagher,  alluding  to  this  ** Invocation,"  said: 


Uer  adjuration  was  answered,  and  since  then  (1845)  the  Mose  has  been  her 
....    Some  of  her  iKM>ins  are  among  the  muHt  beautinil  of  the  day.  and  are  cnlitlei  to  aa  hia 

orahle  pluoc  in  the  poetical  literature  of  hor  country She  stnga,  not  tinrnnw  Ar  kv  i 

demand  from  either  the  l)0(>k  trade  or  the  magazine  trade,  bat  beeanae  aong  li  IIm  In^gnigr  sf  Is 
heart,  and  she  mud  King,  or  her  heart  munt  ache  with  its  wpprewcd  emotloQiL 
truthfully  and  beautifully.  In  the  following  graceful  stanzaa : 

Breewf  from  the  bod  of  Mm, 

Come  and  Cui  me  with  thfllr  wlsf , 
Till  my  mul  U  full  of  miwtc, 

And  I  flftnnol  chooM  bat  Mag. 

When  •  ttparkUog  fount  b  brimmiag, 

Let  •  Cklrj  rk>ad  bcftow 
Bat  another  drop  of  valer. 

And  •  wmve  will  oreiHow. 


When  •  thintj  flower  hM 
All  tlM  dew  lb  heart  can  bear, 

It  dbtribuica  the  mnahubr 
To  the  ■unbena  and  the  air. 

Her  power  of  imitation  U  very  strong.    Of  all  the  attempts  that  hare  beoi 
conHtnictiou  and  flow  of  Poc'h  "  Jiuveu.**  hers  is  the  moHt  succesuful  by  far.    U 
Poe'i  Jkathf  and  one  or  two  of  the  stanzas  art*  equal  not  only  to  the  werm  of  the  ** 
tu  itii  poetry. 


Ill  1450  the  Grand  Koynl  Aroh  Chapter  of  Free  and  Accepted 
pivscntfMl  Mrs.  Holtoii  a  silver  eup,  as  a  prize  for  an  ode  written  by  her, 
tlie  laying  of  tlie  ourncr-stoiKf  of  Mik^inio  Hall  at  Indianapolis.     The 
viix's  wen*  public.     The  largest  chun*h  in  In(liana|K>lis  was  crowded.     Tht  Gswl 
P.  statt'd  the  ohj(*ct  of  the  con  vocation,  wh«*n  Junies  Morrison  presented  the 
appntpriatc  arhln"«s.     Mrs.  Holuin  accepted  it,  with  a  few  worda  of 
whirl  I  the  State  St'nfntfl  siu<I  were  **in  the  best  taste,  delivered  in  wonuuilj  ityla^ 
and  I'fli'ctive." 

On  (hi*  cvfninfr  of  the  .^iecoiid  of  March,  1H.'»2,  we  heard  Mrs.  BdltOB 
s|M'i'ih.  I ^ Mils  K(wsiith  was  then  the  gtiest  nf  the  State  of  IndianiL  Mn 
who  hail  written  a  stirrin<c  {nx'tn  to  him  in  18411,  manifested  deep  inlemft  im 


I 


184<>-50.]  SARAH    T.  BOLTON.  869 

fiion  to  America,  and  was  chosen  by  the  ladies  of  Indianapolis  to  present  him  a  purse  con- 
taining one  hundred  and  fifly  dollars,  which  they  had  contributed.  At  the  close  of  an 
address  by  Kossuth,  to  a  large  audience,  on  the  characteristics  of  the  people  of  Hun- 
gary, a  committee  of  ladies,  among  whom  was  the  wife  of  Joseph  Wright,  then  Gov- 
ernor of  Indiana,  was  presented,  and  JVIrs.  Bolton,  with  subdued  earnestness  of  feel- 
ing, but  in  clear  tones,  and  with  fitting  elocution,  presented  the  purse,  in  a  few  words 
-which  exactly  represented  the  spirit  of  the  last  stanza  of  her  poem  to  the  Magyar : 

And  bast  thoa  striven,  with  might  and  mind  in  vain? 

In  vain  ?  ah !  no,  the  bread  thy  det^  have  cast 
Upon  the  waters  will  be  foand  ajpiin  ; 

The  seed  thy  thoughts  have  sown  will  ripen  fast, 
Dewed  by  a  nation's  tears,  and  when  at  last 

The  harvest  whitens,  until  all  are  free, 
True  hearts  will  turn  with  reverence  to  the  pai»t. 

And  from  the  countless  millions  yet  to  be. 
Will  rise  a  pa.'au  song,  brave,  true  Kossuth,  for  thee. 

In  his  response,  Kossuth  said : 

Yon  say  that  you  have  prayed  for  the  success  of  fi-eedom  in  my  native  land — I  know,  for  your- 
eclf.  you  have  done  more  than  this.  You  have  contributed  to  that  cause  your  genius — a  genius 
which  it  is  the  pleasure  of  your  State  to  honor  and  apprc>ciate.  I  know  that  there  is  a  chord  in  the 
tender  heart  of  woman  that  ever  responds  to  justice,  and  that  her  impulses  are  against  oppression 
in  every  land.  I  entreat  you  to  go  on  and  bestow  your  sympathy  even  as  the  mother  bestows  her 
love  on  her  child.    Human  liberty  is  well  worthy  of  a  mother's  fostering  care. 

Mr.  Bolton  was  appointed  consul  to  Geneva,  Switzerland,  by  President  Pierce,  in 
the  spring  of  1855.  Mrs.  Bolton  and  her  daughter,  Sallie  Ada,  accompanied  him  to 
Europe.  They  spent  the  summer  of  1856  in  Italy,  and  the  autumn  of  the  same  year 
in  Germany.  In  the  spring  of  1857  Mrs.  Bolton  and  daughter  returned  to  Indiana. 
They  had  been  home  but  a  few  weeks,  when  a  letter  was  received  from  Mr.  Bolton, 
which  stated  that  he  had  been  ill,  but  was  convalescent  Mrs.  Bolton  had  serious  fore- 
bodings, and  before  sunrise,  on  the  morning  after  the  letter  had  been  read,  was  on  her 
way  back  to  Switzerland  alone.  She  found  her  husband  attending  to  his  accustomed 
duties,  when  she  reached  Geneva,  but  his  health  was  not  fully  restored.  In  the  spring 
of  1858  he  returned  with  Mrs.  Bolton  to  Indianapolis.  His  family  and  friends  enter- 
tained strong  hope  that,  in  the  climate  to  which  he  had  nearly  all  his  life  been  accus- 
tomed, he  would  regain  his  health.  The  hope  was  vain.  He  died,  in  the  fifty-sixth 
year  of  his  age,  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  November,  1858.  Mr.  Bolton  was  a  man  of 
important  influence  in  Indiana.  He  started  the  first  paper  published  at  Indianapolis ; 
wa*^  an  officer  of  the  Legislature,  several  terms — had  been  Register  of  the  Land-office, 
and  for  many  years  State  Librarian. 

Mrs.  Bolton,  with  a  son  and  daughter,  resides  still  at  Indianapolis.  She  possesses 
pro|XM'ty.  which  affords  her  family  competent  support. 

While  in  Europe,  Mrs.  Bolton  wrote  graphic  letters  for  the  Oincinnati  Commercialj 
and  contributed  numerous  poems  to  its  columns  and  to  those  of  the  New  York  Home 
Journal^  which  were  suggested  by  observations  or  experiences  in  Switzerland.     She 


24 


f 


K7U 


SAUAII    T.   BOLT<^N. 


[1*M 


puhlishos  nircly  now.     Her  ])0('ms  have  never  boon  col]L*ctod.     We  tnwt  the  wiB 
Icct  tliem,  ami,  bcforu  nnothor  year  Iia8  ulapsi'<l,  firratify  her  friondji  with  a  Tobuv. 
Mrs.  Hi>Iton  was  well  descTilKfl  in  an  article  written  for  the  New  York  IUmn  J 
nal,  in  1850,  by  liobort  Dale  Owen: 


With  A  fiiK-ly  formed  head,  nnd  ample  intrllcctual  fori'h-'ad.  her  couateomooe. 
r<>;rii1anty  ut  ftiituns  18  of  hi^Iily  plvusiiig  rxpnWiun,  tsiM-cially  wbtA  lighted  op.  m  la  cuot 
tioii  it  usually  i^  l>y  the  briffht  and  cho<Tful  ^pi^it  within.  Her  manuem  aiv  fkwik.  Gt^li 
M  iuiiint;,  with  little  or  couveiitiunal  furm  and  much  of  gL-uuioe  pniprietj  abuot  Ukm. 


The  froodom  from  conv(*ntional  form  thufl  as(*rilied  to  ^fru.  BoItonV  nuuum^  i 
('hanirtt'ri>tio  arising  from  the  inde]K'nd<*n(*o  and  force  of  fharactcr  dL^plajed  vba 
alKUxloned  |KM;tic  pleiu^uri's  ibr  domestic  dutien,  and  the  spirit  whicfi  then  aniiBaled  I 
a  .•spirit  wortliy  of  her  patriotic  ancestors,  breathes  nobly  in  many  of  her 


AWAKE  TO  EFFORT. 

Awake  to  eff<)rt,  while  the  day  is  shininir. 

The  time  to  lalM>r  will  not  always  hist. 
And  no  ri'prot,  rojM*ntanre  or  repining 

C'iin  brin;;  to  us  affsiin  tlio  buritHl  |Mi«t. 

The  .silent  sands  of  lit'o  are  fallin*;  fast ; 
Timo  tells  our  busy  pulses,  one  by  one, 

And  shall  our  work,  so  ne(*dful  and  so 
v:ist, 
l$o  all  completed,  or  but  just  bejrnn 
When  twili;!ht  shadows  vail  life's  dim,  de- 
parting sun  ? 


That  industry  might   phne  'CS 
Bhrine,  ^ 

Or  lavish  on  the  world,  to  finthff  Ga 

design. 

To  effort !  ye  whom  God  has  DQJbly  gjAi 
With  that   prevailing  power,  wM 
song. 
For  human  good  let  every  pea  be  GM 
For  human  good  let  ewij 

strong. 
Is  then*  no  crying  sin,  no 
That  ye  may  help  to  weaken  o 
In  wayside  hut  and  horel, 
throng, 
DowntnMlden  by  privation  and 
Is  there  no  Mneken  heart  thai  jeoai^ 
and  bless? 


,  Sing  iilh*  lays  to  i<11e  haq»  no 


What  duties  have  our  idle  hands  neglecte<l? 
WImt  Useful  lessons  have   we  leumtM 
ami  taught  ? 
What  warmth,  what   radiance   have  our 
hearts  n'tlect<*<I ; 
What  rieh  and  rart>  niatf 'rials  have  we'      (•!>•  p*'al   an   anthem   at   the  pM 

hniudit  I  llraven; 

Fur  deep  iiivi'.^tiiiMtion.  caitieM  thought;  K\i-rt inn  make-:  the  fainting  fpirilftraip 
C'>>ii(-<'ali  <I    witiiin    the    .ouiiiV   unfathonieil       Sing,  till    the  bonds  of  ignonaee  i 
mine,  rivi'n, 

lliiw  many  a  sparkling  gem  remains  un-.      Till  «lark  oppression  Iran  the 
wrought,  I  driven. 


[1840-60 


SARAH   T.   BOLTON. 


»71 


SiDg,  till  £ix>m  every  land  and  every  sea 
One  universal  triumph  song  is  given, 
To  hail  the  long-expected  juhilec, 
When  every  bond  is  broke  and  every  vas- 
sal free. 

And  ye,  whose  birthright  is  the  glorious 
dower 
Of  eloquence  to  thrill  the  immortal  soul, 
Use  not  unwisely  the  transcendant  power, 
To  waken,  guide,  restrain,  direct,  control 
The  heart's  deep,  deep  emotions;  let  the 
goal 
Of  your  ambition  be  a  mind  enshrined 

By  love  and  gratitude  within  the  scroll. 
Where  generations  yet  unborn  shall  find 
Tlie  deathless  deeds  of  those  who  loved 
and  blessed  mankind. 

Go !  use  the  weighty  energies  that  slum- 
ber 
Unknown,  unnumber'd   in  the  world's 
great  heart ; 
Remove  the  stubborn  errors  that  encumber 
The  fields  of  science,  literature  and  art 
Rend  superstition's  darkening  vail  apart. 
And  hurl  to  earth  blind  bigotry,  the  ban 
From  which  a  thousand  grievous  evils 
start 
To  thwart  and  mar  the  great  Creator's 

plan. 
And  break  the  ties  that  bind  the  brother- 
hood of  man. 

,  And  ye  who  sit  aloft  in  earth's  high  places 
Percliance,  amid  your  wealth,  you  scarce- 
ly know 
That  want  and  woe  are  leaving  fearful 
traces 
Upon  the  toiling  multitude  below. 

From  your  abundance  can  ye  not  bestow 
A  mite  to  smooth  the  thorny  paths  they 

tread  ? 
Have  ye  no  sympathy  with  human  woe? 

No  ray  of  blessed  hope  and  joy  to  shed 

Ui)on  the  weary  hearts  that  pine  and  toil 

for  bread  ? 


Amid  the  gorgeous  splendor  that  bediasens 

Your  palaces,  no  longer  idly  stand. 
While  dens  of  wickedness  and  loathsome 
prisons 
Arise,  like  blighting  plague-spots,  o'er 

the  land. 
Go !  speak  a  word  and  lend  a  helping 
hand 
To  rescue  men  from  degradation's  thrall. 
Nor  deem  a  just  and  righteous  Grod  hath 
banned 
The  toiling  millions,  while  the  rain-drops 

fall, 
And  blessed  sunbeams  shine  alike  finom 
heaven  for  alL 

The  smallest  bark,  on  life's  tempestuous 
ocean. 
Will  leave  a  track  behind,  forevermore ; 
The  lightest  wave  of  influence,  set  in  mo- 
tion. 
Extends  and  widens  to  the  eternal  shore. 
We  should  be  wary,  then,  who  go  before 
A  myriad  yet  to  be,  and  we  should  take 
Our  bearing  carefully,  where  breakers 
roar 
And  fearful  tempests  gather ;  one  mistake 
May  wreck  unnumbered  barks  that  follow 
in  our  wake. 


PADDLE  YOUR  OWN  CANOR 

Voyager  upon  life's  sea, 

To  yourself  be  true. 
And  where'er  your  lot  may  be, 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 
Never,  though  the  winds  may  rave, 

Falter  nor  look  back; 
But  upon  the  darkest  wave 

Leave  a  shining  track. 

Nobly  dare  the  wildest  storm, 
Stem  the  hardest  gale, 


372 


SARAH    T.    BOLTON. 


[MMi 


Brave  of  heart  and  strong  of  arm, 

You  will  never  faiL 
AVIien  the  world  is  cold  and  dark, 

Keep  an  aim  in  view; 
And  toward  the  lK*acon-mark 

Puddle  your  own  ciuioe. 

Ev(jrj  wave  tliat  bears  you  on 

To  the  Bilent  shore, 
From  its  sunny  sourec  has  gone 

To  return  no  mon\ 
Then  let  not  an  hour's  delay 

Cheat  you  of  your  due; 
But,  while  it  is  italled  to-day, 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 

If  your  birth  denies  you  wealth, 

Lofty  >tate  and  jwwer, 
Honest  fame  and  hanly  health 

Are  a  better  dower. 
But  if  tliese  will  not  sutfice, 

(folden  gain  pur:«ue; 
And  to  gain  the  glittering  prize, 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 

Would  you  wH'st  the  wreath  of  fame 

From  the  han<l  of  fate? 
Would  you  write  a  deathless  name 

With  the  good  and  great? 
Would  you  bless  your  fellow-men? 

Heart  and  soul  imbue 
With  the  holy  task,  and  then 

Paddle  your  own  eiuitie. 

Would  you  crush  tlie  tynuit  wrong. 

In  the  worhiV  free  light? 
With  a  spirit  bnive  and  strong, 

Battle  for  the  ri^lit. 
And  to  break  the  chains  that  bind 

The  many  to  the  ffw — 
To  enfranchise  slavish  mind — 

Paddle  your  own  ciuiue. 

Nothing  gn'at  is  lightly  won, 

Nothing  won  is  lo-t ; 
Kvt-ry  go<Ml  d<'e«l,  nobly  done, 

Will  repay  the  cjjst. 


Leave  to  Heaven,  in  huinbk  trw^ 

All  you  will  to  do; 
But  if  you  succeed,  joa  muit 

Paddle  your  owa 


CALL  TUE  ROLL. 


Who  is  ready  for  the 

Who  with  helmet,  a  word  and  fUrii 
Will  go  forth  to  conquer  EiroTv 

On  life's  battle-field? 
Wlio  will  strike  at  SupendtioBy 

Li  his  goblin-haunted  cell. 
And  unloose  the  myriad  TicUBi 

Fettered  by  bis  Apeil? 

CaUtheidL 


Who  will  strive,  on  (3od 

With  unwav'ring  faith  and  liope. 
To  pull  down  the  gory  •caflbld. 

And  the  gallowii-rope? 
Wlio  will  break  the  yoke  of 

And  unbar  the  prinon  dooTy 
Saying  to  the  trembling  ainDer» 

^Go  and  8in  no  more?** 

CaUtheidL 


Who,  forgetting  »e]£f  will 

To  swwft  charity's  i 
Wlio  will  labor  for  the  lowly 

With  untiring  zeal? 
Casting  bread  ui^on  the  watoii 

Not  for  human  |iraiw« 
Trusting  heaven  again  to  find  il» 

After  many  dayzi? 

CaUtheralL 


Who  will  put  what  God  hat 
Wisfly  to  the  noblest  lue; 

Who  will  eluthi'  the  bomeleii 
Kill  th(*  wiiIow**(  cnue. 

And,  like  him  of  old 
Help  the  »tranger  in  his 


1940.50.] 


SARAH    T.   BOLTON. 


373 


Reckless  of  his  name  and  nation, 
Reckless  of  his  creed? 

Call  the  roll 

Who,  that  finds  a  child  of  sorrow, 

Heir  to  penury  and  woe. 
Will  not  tarry  to  inquire 

What  has  made  them  so, 
Ere  he  freely  shares  a  pittance 

From  his  meager,  hard-earned  store, 
Or  bestows  a  cup  of  water, 

If  he  can  no  more? 

Call  the  roll 

Who,  when  slander's  tongue  is  busy 

With  an  absent  neighbor's  name, 
Will  excuse  the  faults  and  failings, 

And  defend  his  fame? 
Who  will  view  poor  human  nature 

Only  on  the  brighest  side. 
Leaving  Grod  to  judge  the  evil 

Charity  would  hide? 

CaU  the  rolL 


WHERE  IS  THY  HOME? 

Where   is  thy  home?     Where  summer 
skies  are  flinging 
Rich,  mellow  light  o'er  some  sea-girded 
isle— 
Where,  in  the  orange-groves,  bright  birds 
are  singing, 
And  stars  are  wooing  the  flowers  with 
their  smile; 

Where  the  soft  south  wind  strays 

And  palm-leaves  quiver, 
Through  the  long  pleasant  days, 
By  some  bright  river — 
Is  thy  home  there? 

Where  is  thy  home?    Where  gallant  men 

are  braving 
Danger  and   death  on  the  red  battle- 

plain — 
Where,  in  the  cannon's   smoke,  banners 

are  waving. 


And   the  wild  war-horse  is  trampling 
the  slain; 

Where  the  dead  soldier  sleeps- 
Wrapped  in  his  glory; 
Where  the  cold  night  dew  steeps 
Faces  all  gory — 

Is  thy  home  there? 

Where  is  thy  home?    Where  ivy- wreaths 
are  climbing 
Over  old    ruins  all    moss-grown    and 
gray- 
Where,  at  the  vesper  hour,  deep  bells 
a-chiming. 
Summon  the  toil-weary  spirit  to  pray — 
Where,  as  the  darkness  falls. 

Over  the  gloaming, 
Through  the  dim  cloister  halls 
Pale  ghosts  are  roaming— 
Is  thy  home  there? 

Where  is  thy  home?     Where  mountam 
waves  are  swelling. 
Over  the  caves  of  the  fathomless  deep- 
Where,  in  their  coral  bowers,  Nereids  are 
knelling 
Dirges    where    beauty    and    chivalry 
sleeps 

Where  the  storm's  lurid  light, 

Fitfully  gleaming, 
Startles  at  dead  of  night, 
Men  from  their  dreaming-* 
Is  thy  home  there? 

No,  dearest,  no— Where  pleasant  words 
are  spoken. 
In   a  sweet    cottage   half  hidden    by 
flowers, 
Where  the  dear  household  band  never  is 
broken. 
Where  hope  and  happiness  wing  the 
glad  hours — 

From  care  and  strife  apart, 

Never  more  roving, 
In  my  adoring  heart. 
Faithful  and  loving- 
There  is  thy  home. 


374 


SAKAII    T.    BOLTON. 


[1^ 


IF  I  WERE  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  BRIGHT- 
EST STAR. 

If  I  were  the  light  uf  the  brightest  star, 

Tliat  buriH  in  the  zenith  now, 
I  would  tremble  down  from  my  home  afar, 

To  kiss  thy  radiant  bmw. 
If  I  were  the  breath  oi  a  fragrant  flower. 

With  a  viewless  wing  and  free, 
I  would  steal  away  from  the  fairest  bower, 

And  live,  love,  but  ibr  thee. 

If  I  were  the  soul  of  l>ewitching  song, 

AVith  a  moving,  melting  tone, 
I  woulfl  float  from  the  gay  and  tlioughtlcss 
throng, 

And  soothe  thy  soul  alone. 
If  I  were  a  cliami,  by  fairy  wrought, 

I  would  bind  thee  with  a  sign ; 
And  never  again  should  a  gloomy  thought 

O'ershadow  thy  spirit's  shrine. 

If  I  were  a  memory,  jmst  alloy, 

I  would  ]ing(*r  wh(>re  thou  art ; 
If  I  were  a  thought  of  abiding  joy, 

I  would  nestle  in  thy  heart. 
If  I  were  a  hope,  with  the  magic  light 

That  makes  the  future  fair, 
1  woul<l  make  thy  patii  on  the  earth  a< 
bright 

As  the  paths  of  angels  are. 


nd  the  bloMom  slept  through  the  f 

night. 
In  the  smile  of  the  angel-nj, 
nd  the  morn  arose  with  iu  gtnA 
And  tlie  buA  one  Hole  away. 


Then  the  zephyr  wooed,  as  he 
Where  the  gentle  floweret  gnrv. 

But  i^he  gave  no  heed  to  hU  plainciTc 
Her  heart  to  itji  love  wai 


And  the  sunbeam  came,  with  a  hn/t 
To  caress  the  flower  in  Tam ; 

She  folded  her  sweets  m  her  thriBmb 
TiU  the  suurlight 


t4r* 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  STARLIGHT. 

FitoM  its  home  on  high,  to  a  gentle  flower 
That  bloomed  in  a  loiu'ly  grove, 

Till*  .starlight  came  at  the  twilight  hour, 
And  wiiispered  a  tale  of  love. 

TIk'Ii  tli«'  hlossom's  heart  >o  >till  :uid  (mM, 
(inw  warm  t«>  its  ^ilnil  eore. 

Anil  ^':tv('  uut  )H*rl\inH',  from  its  inmost  fold, 
ll  nt-\er  exhaled  brfori*. 


DIRGE  FOR  TIIE  OLD  TIAI. 

Toll,  toll,  UAl, 
Where  the  winter  winds  are  m^^\ 

Toll,  toll,  toll. 
Where  the  somber  doads  are  ijiif ; 

Toll,  toll,  toll, 
A  dee}K*r,  i^adder  knoIL^- 
Thmi  sounds  for  a  paMog 
Should  tell  of  the  OM  Yi 
Spirits  o\'  b<*auly  and 
Goblins  of  darkneM  and  aigk 
Fnmi  your  sunny  |iatli«,  in  the  aaat  i 
From  the  Stygian  shoresy  where  Iki  A 

ows  lie. 
From  yunr  com]  homes,  in  the  oesHCV 
Fmin  the  frigid  north,  where  the  tflf 
rav«»s, 

Cfime  to  the  pale  one  ijwp 
Hark !  to  the  falling  of  phutosi  te 

Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat. 
Like  the  solemn  raunds,  when  the  0| 
mei'l, 
Chi  the  shon's  of  a  mi^tj  n 
They  are  folding  the  dead  in  hm 
shtN't, 
To  U'ar  him  away  forever. 


1840-50.] 


SARAH   T.  BOLTON. 


S76 


A  rush  of  wings  on  the  midnight  wind — 

The  fall  of  a  shadowy  portal — 
And  the  good  Old  Year,  so  true  and  kind, 
Pa.ssc»d  to  his  rest,  but  left  behind 
The  record  of  deeds  immortal. 


IN  MY  SLEEP  I  HAD  A  VISION. 

In  my  sleep  I  had  a  vision, 

Of  a  brighter  world  than  this ; 
Of  a  realm,  whose  vales  Elysian, 

Wooed  the  soul  to  endless  bliss- 
Hope  could  sing  of  nothing  fairer 

Than  this  soft,  bewitching  isle ; 
Fancy  dreamed  of  nothing  rarer, 

And  she  furled  her  wings  awhile. 

It  had  crystal  streams  and  fountains, 

Glens  and  grottos,  cool  and  deep, 
^Tiere  the  shadows  of  the  mountains 

Lay  on  violets,  asleep. 
It  had  labyrinths  of  flowers. 

Arching  'neath  a  summer  sky, 
And  to  tread  those  fairy  bowers 

There  were  only  thou  and  I— 

Thou  and  I  together  straying 

Through  each  shady  glen  and  grove ; 
Two  enraptured  souls  a-Maying, 

In  the  Eden-land  of  love. 
Then  our  hearts  forgot  the  sorrow, 

Toil  and  care  of  by-gone  years, 
And  the  prospect  of  the  morrow 

Brought  us  neither  doubts  nor  fears. 

If  a  memory  came  to  darken 

Those  bright  moments  all  our  own, 
Tnisting  love  refused  to  hearken 

To  the  Sybil's  chiding  tone. 
Joy  that  would  not  brook  concealing, 

From  thine  eyes  like  sunlight  stole, 
And  the  iris  wreath  of  feeling 

Was  the  cestus  of  my  soul. 


Words  of  love,  though  wild  and  burning. 

Seemed  but  trite  and  feeble  things, 
And  I  learned  thy  fond  heart's  yearning, 

By  the  trembling  of  its  strings. 
Never  can  our  waking  senses 

Such  ecstatic  joy  receive, 
For  an  hour  like  this  condenses 

All  the  pleasure  life  can  give. 


MONT  BLANC. 

0  WORSHIPER  in  heaven's  far  courts !  sub- 
lime 
Gleams  thy  white  forehead,  bound  with 
purple  air. 
Thou  art  coeval  with  old  gray-haired  Time, 

Yet  thy  colossal  features  are  as  fair 
As   when   the  Omniscient  set  his  signet 
there. 
Wrapped  in  a  royal  robe,  that  human  art 
Could  never  weave,  nor  mortal  monarch 
wear. 
Thou  sitt'st  enthroned  in  majesty  apart, 
Folding  eternal  rest  and   silence  in  thy 
heart. 

Wlien  the  Almighty  Mind  went  forth,  and 
wrought 
Upon   the  formless   waters;   when  he 
hung 
New  worlds  on  their  mysterious  paths,  and 
brought 
Light  out  of  brooding  darkness;  when 
the  young, 
Fair  earth  at  his  command  fi*om  chaos 
sprung 
To  join  the  universal  jubilee ; 
When  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  his  triumphs 
sung, 
God  left  his  footsteps  on  the  sounding  sea, 
And  wrote  his  glorious  name,  proud  mon- 
ument, on  thee : 


S76 


SAKAH    T.   BOLTON. 


[M». 


Tell  us,  carlh-bom  (timpanion  of  the  stars, 
Ilai^t  thou   beheld   wlien  worldd  were 
wrecked  and  riven  ? 
Ilast  Keen  wild  comets  in  their  hmI  simars 
O'er  the  far  fields  of  r<pace  at  random 
driven  ? 
Seest  thou  the  angels  at  the  gate  of  heaven  ? 
Perchance  they  lend  that  glory  to  thy 
brow, 
Wiiich  burns  and  sparkles  there  this  bum- 
mer even ! 
Perclmiice  their  anthems  float  around 
thee  now — 
They  worship  God  alway,  and  so,  Mont 
Blanc,  dost  thou. 

Soh'mn  evangel  of  almighty  power, 

The  pillars  of  the  earth   su]){>ort   thy 
throne ; 
Ages  unknown,  unnumb<'red,are  thy  dower, 
Sunlight  thy  crown,  the  clouds  of  heaven 
thy  zone. 
Spires,  columns,  turrets,  loAy  and  alone ; 
Snow-fields,  where  never  bird  nor  beast 
abode; 
Cavi'rns  unmeasured,  fas'tncsses  unknown ; 
Glaciers  where  human  feet  have  never 
trod— 
Ye  are  the  visible  throne,  the  dwelling- 
place  of  God. 

AVhat   is  the  measure  of  our  threescore 
years — 
Wliat  tlie  duration  of  our  toil  and  care? 
What  are  our  a.-^pinUiuns,  hopes,  and  fears. 
The  joys  we  prize,  the  ills  we  needs  must 
lM*ar — 
The  earthly  goals  we  win,  the  deeds  we 
dare  ? 
( )ur  life  is  but  a  breath,  a  smile,  a  sigh ; 
\\r  «:«>,  and  Time  reetinls  not  that  we  wi-n?; 
Hut  thou  will  lift  thy  giant  bntw  on  high, 
Till  Tiinc*s   \iL<t  hour  is  kiiolle<l,  lost  in 
eteniiiy. 

And  we,  bfhoMing  thre,  do  turn  aside 
From  all  the  lit  I h*  iilols  we  have  wrought ; 


Self-love,  ambitioOy  wealthy  frme,  poi 
and  pride 
Keep  silence  before  tlwe ;  md  we  i 
taught 
A  nobli*r  aim,  a  more  radoring 
Our  souls  are  toudied  bj  (be 
fire 
That   glows  on  holier   altan;   wIm  ^ 
sought 
With  thought,  heart,  mind,  mcim  ia 
and  we  a>pire 
To  win  some  sure  good,  Mxne  gaetduo  k 
lier,  higher. 

Thou  art  au  altar,  where  tlie  haman  tatl 
Pays  God  the  tribute  of  ita  pnjtr  u 
praise; 
Feelings,  emotions,  pasMOg  all  eoBtnil 
Are  bom  of  thee ;  wondering  subdicc 
we  gaze. 
Till  soul  and  sense  are  lost  hi  atiU  iiMfr 
And  the  full-gushing  heart  ktgeu  i 
beat. 
We  fi*el  the  invisible,  we  seem  to  niic 
The   inner  vail,  to  stand    when  tm 
worlds  meet, 
Entranitrd,  bewildered,  rapt,  adoriag  si  d? 
feet 


LAKE  LEIIAN. 

Thou  art  beautiful,  Lake 

When  thy  starry  wares  are  sktpii^ 
Sleeping  in  the  foinl  embraces 

Of  the  summer  moon*s  soft  figh; 
Wiien  thy  waters  seem  to  listen 

To  the  blue  Rhone,  sadlj  nciimg 
As  bhc  |Mirts  from  tbee  Ibrewr, 

Munnuring  tenderly,  Good-a%|l* 

Tiiou  art  gloriou?*,  when  the 

Natun>\t  radiant  evangel, 
Lay>  her  ehei'k  upon  thj 

With  her  tresses  all 


lg40-50.] 


SARAH    T.   BOLTON. 


377 


When  the  snowy  mists  that  bound  thee 
Like  the  drapery  of  an  angel, 

Are  woven  into  rainbows, 
In  the  pathway  of  the  sun. 

Thou  art  peerless,  when  the  twilight 

Of  a  quiet  summer  even 
Binds  the  eastern  sky  with  shadows. 

As  the  day  goes  down  to  rest ; 
When  the  gold  and  crimson  curtains, 

Looped  around  the  gates  of  heaven, 
And  the  pathway  of  the  angels 

Are  painted  on  thy  breast 

Thou  art  lovely,  when  the  vine-hills 

Are  pictured  in  thy  waters ; 
Or  when  storm-winds  from  the  Jura 

Crown  thy  waves  with  starry  foam ; 
And  the  children  of  thy  valleys, 

Helvetia's  sons  and  daughters. 
When  they  leave  thee,  lake  of  beauty, 

Never  find  another  home. 

But  I  dwell  by  thee  a  stranger. 

Of  my  exile  grown  so  weary 
That  my  soul  is  sick  with  sigliing. 

Waiting,  longing  to  depart ; 
And  the  music  of  thy  voices 

flakes  me  homesick,  makes  me  dreary ; 
0 !  I  cannot  learn  to  love  thee. 

While  my  own  land  fills  my  heart. 

I  have  climbed  the  snow-capped  mount- 
ains. 

Sailed  on  many  a  storied  river. 
And  brushed  the  dust  of  ages 

From  gray  monuments  sublime ; 
I  have  seen  the  grand  old  pictures 

That  the  world  enshrines  forever, 
And  the  statues  that  the  masters 

Left  along  the  paths  of  Time. 

But  my  pilgrim  feet  are  weary. 
And  my  spirit  dim  with  dreaming 

Whore  tlie  long,  dead  Past  has  written 
^listy,  hieroglyphic  lore ; 


In  a  land  whose  pulses  slumber, 

Or  only  beat  in  seeming. 
And  the  pathway  of  the  CsBsars 

Is  a  ruin  evermore. 

Bear  me  back,  0  mighty  ocean ! 

From  this  Old  World,  gray  and  gory, 
To  the  forests  and  the  prairies. 

Far  beyond  thy  stormy  waves ; 
To  the  land  that  Freedom  fostered 

To  gigantic  strength  and  glory. 
To  my  home-land,  with  its  loved  ones, 

And  its  unforgotten  graves. 

Give  me  back  my  little  cottage. 

And  the  dear  old  trees  I  planted, 
And  the  common,  simple  blossoms 

That  bloomed  around  my  door ; 
And  the  old,  familiar  home-songs 

That  my  children's  voices  chanted. 
And  the  few  who  used  to  love  me. 

And  my  heart  will  ask  no  more. 


HOPE  ON,  HOPE  EVER. 

Hope  on,  hope  ever ;  if  thy  lot 

Be  forlorn  and  lowly. 
Thou  mayst  gain  a  brighter  spot, 

Though  thy  steps  move  slowly. 
Reckless  of  the  rich  man's  scorn, 

On  thyself  relying. 
Strive  to  win,  though  lowly  bom. 

Name,  renown  undying. 
In  the  path  that  heaven  assigned, 

Rest  thee  idly  never ; 
Work  with  might  and  soul  and  mind. 

And  hope  on,  hope  ever. 

Hope  on,  hope  ever,  while  the  day 

On  thy  path  is  shining ; 
Let  no  moment  bear  away 

Murmurs  of  repining. 


SIDNEY   DYER. 


SiiiNKY  Dyrk  wns,  At  the  a^  of  sixteen  jcan^  a  ^bold  dnumiier  boj"  m 

Aiiicricaii  army.     He  was  then  i;;n<>niiit  of  tlie  rudinientA  of  a  ooaunoo  En^U' 

eatidti.     lie  w:i8  a  8pri;;Iitl}',  intelligent  Imiv,  however,  and  attncted  tlie  Dociee  < 

ben<*volent  woman,  throii<;h  wh(h«  ])ersuasion  he  wa<  indurtfd  to  give  to  rtodv  ti 

hours  \v)ii<'h  his  i-ompaiiions  spent  in  iilh^ness^  or  dis^iimtioo.     Kind  infloenntf  r 

trn'd  aruiind  him,  as  lie  became  more  and  more  d(^*ply  interMted  in  the  |i«r«i! 

knowIc(l<re,  and,  at  length,  he  determined  to  eon  serrate  hims^elf  to  the  Chrvtiaa  i 

istry.     He  has  ct^lebruted  in  pleasant  lines  these  imfiortant  changes  in  hLi  parboil-  i 

puq  K)se3 : 

I  DiiQffh'd  with  tl)o  ciKirs<*  and  rude, 

And  h«-ard  tb«^  riljald  yni ; 
And  thoiijzbt  to  die  us  tlii'j  will  die, 
«  riihi)iu>red  and  unbl<r»wd. 

But  th<'n'  was  one  who  miw  my  grief, 

JiiHl  bonlifin;:  on  d<'s|mir  : 
She  sought  mv  f»ut.  and  anysel-like, 

Muf|«*  uU  inv  wtH.'H  h**r  cart>. 

Oh  !  then  my  si  ml  o'crtlowetl  with  blLw, 

My  st'p  wiut  liu'ht  :i!m!  fnt». 
While  niv  full  h'-art  with  invuiice  boat 

lU  first  K'lud  ••  lU'Vcillo ! " 

Mv  ft'vX  wfH'  turnif I  on  wisiiom'H  •*  March  I " 

* 

And  (Ml  my  ni]>tun.-d  H^ht 
Tlif  dawiiin);  l>rukt>.  and  '•inee  that  hour 
IIiu*  pourt'd  iiicniu^in}!  IIlzIu. 

\Vh«*n  nitw  I  tiiink  nf  ••  uuld  lan^;  pyne/' 

Of  j»rf*?»enl,  p:i-t  eniplny. 
I  m-uHT  can  inakf  hiv-m  ||"  l>«>ru've 

m 

I  vtii!*  tliat  "  DriininiiT  Ilnv." 

Mr.  I)y<T  ennnretrd  him-trlf  with  tin*  IViptl^t  Chnrch,  and.  we  h<>1iere,  hrf^  k 
ear«>«T  ;e«  a  pr*':i('h<'r  in  Kcntiii^ky,  alMMit  the  year  isl').  In  1^49  he  pubIL«bfdft<* 
unit*  of*  piMin-**  in  F^oiii-viijc,  K«*nturky,  ai:<l,  in  If^'t'K  C(>nsi*nti'd  to  the  publicai^** 
**  An  Olin  fif  T^ive  and  Smi?/'  dflivtTiil  bv  him  iM'fore  the  Atkienian  Socirtrofli 
(li.-ina  Iniveroitv,  on  tlie  tliiilv-tirnt  d:iv  of  Jiilv,  in  that  vcar.  8inve  18a0.  31r.  I^ 
ha<  bi-i-n  the  pastor  of  the  First  IbiptiM  Chnndi  f>f  Iiidiunu|N»1ij(.  He  hM 
Iar^t>  iiuiiibiT  of  viTv  popular  mmi't*'.  !!«*  i^  <piite  su<v<*S'»fiil  in  tTpiraiini: 
sintiti)i-iii«  :inil  eiuoiioii^  in  wonN  W('ll-:iila]»ti><i  lo  niii^ii*,  and  he  haa  turm^  i 
I  ot'  liiijii'thi  pr«>vt'rb.4  to  happy  ail\anta;;<*  in  ^on;:'>  whirh  have  been  fuog  in  afl  P^ 
of  «»iir  fMiiiiii'v. 

I  •  V>  it-i>-  xf  \-iiiin',  Aii.l  Tbiiu^liU  tu  Illitinc.     l/iul«vllh' :  J.  V   ('oaUnir  bdiI  O.  C 

I  .  :;:s  ■ 


SIDNEY    DYER. 


379 


OF  THE  SUNBEAM. 

right  sunbeam  I 

I  dream, 

ly  comes  down  from  the  skies, 

iep  with  delight, 

fancy  bright, 

I  its  soil  silken  eyes. 

[id  o'er  sea, 

ng  with  glee, 

\y  beauties  I  trace ; 

s  the  wave, 

y  I  lave, 

as  still  we  embrace. 

le  rose, 
ishly  unclose 
)  the  sun  and  the  breeze ; 
T  the  plain, 
waving  grain, 
r  the  leaves  of  the  trees. 

>t  the  cot, 
overty*8  lot 

the  wise  and  the  good ; 
thatch  and  through  pane, 
again, 
Qsullied  from  God. 

from  the  halls, 

k  curtained  walls, 

1th  lies  in  sorrow  all  day ; 

.  the  door 

welleth  the  poor, 

rm  visit  I  pay. 

rill  shrink 

!  catanict's  brink, 

n  its  moisture  my  bow ; 

n  on  the  stream 

iance  gleam, 

shing  up  from  below. 

I's  pallid  cheek 
ill  seek 


To  glow  with  the  beauty  of  even ; 

But  finding  has  fled 

The  soul  of  the  dead, 
Will  mount  with  it  gladly  to  heaven ! 

The  night  for  awhile 

May  shadow  my  smile, 
Then  Nature  in  sorrow  will  reek ; 

1*11  come  o'er  the  lawn 

At  first  peep  of  dawn, 
And  wipe  each  sad  trace  from  its  cheek. 

In  each  opened  grave 

1*11  pour  in  my  wave, 
To  show  there  is  light  in  the  tomb ; 

And  smiling  will  say, 

Come,  this  is  the  way 
To  where  I  eternally  bloom  I 


THE  EVENING  ZEPHYR. 

'Tis  born  within  a  buttercup, 

And  scented  by  a  rose ; 
It  Uves  where  trellised  vine  climbs  up, 

And  murmuring  streamlet  flows. 

It  steals  a  kiss  from  every  flower, 

And  treads,  with  airy  feet, 
Its  noiseless  path  from  wood  to  bower, 

Where  sighing  lovers  meet. 

In  graceful  waves  it  moves  the  bough 

And  undulating  grain, 
While  Echo's  voice,  with  silvery  flow, 

Murmurs  a  soft  refrain. 

And  at  the  gorgeous  verge  of  day 

It  wings  its  evening  flight. 
Where  sleeping  valleys  stretch  away 

In  pensive,  dreamy  light. 

It  wantons  with  each  fair  one's  cheek, 

Untwists  the  truant  curl. 
And  nestling  in  some  bosom  meek, 

Its  viewless  wings  will  furl 


" 


3M) 


SIDNEY    DYER. 


[IMO^i. 


TO  AN  ABSENT  WIFE. 

On  I  how  I  lon;^  to  meet  thee,  love, 

Our  ixnnn  to  fondly  twino, 
AVitli  lip  to  lip,  an<l  licart  to  heart, 

As  when  I  called  thee  mine. 
Then  hopes  were  clustering  thick  around, 

Like  dew-gems  on  the  spray, 
F*or  lite  had  (*a.<t  no  darkling  shade, 

Across,  our  flowery  way. 

Oh !  how  I  long  to  meet  thee,  love, 

As  when  thy  love  for  me, 
Unchi«<|MMl  thee  from  a  mother's  neck, 

A  doating  father's  knee. 
And  won  thy  trembling  heart  from  home, 

Thy  love  and  faith  to  twine 
In  eloper  folds  around  a  heart, 

That  ne'er  was  worthy  thine ! 

Oh !  how  I  long  to  meet  thee,  love, 

As  hy  the  river's  side, 

We  met  to  stray  at  twilight's  hour. 

And  watch  the  silvery  tide ; 
How  MM)n  it  was  forgotten,  love. 

And  letl  to  glide  unseen. 

That  we  might  view  love's  stainless  wave. 

That  tlowed  our  hearts  between. 

Oh  !  how  I  long  to  greet  thee,  love. 

As  wlun  heiifath  the  hill, 
We  sal  aninnd  our  cottagt*  hearth, 

And  drank  of  h]i>s  our  till ; 
Ah !  'twas  an  hour  too  brig! it  to  hist, 

lis  ;rlow  sotju  passed  away, 
Mi-fortune*s  cloud  hath  intervened, 

And  o\erca>t  our  way. 

Hut  wf  >hall  nie<'t  again,  my  love, 

And  lind  atfrct ion's  ]K)wer 
Can  quirk  dispel  each  darksome  cloud, 

And  gh>w  as  in  youth's  hour. 
All !   ^wnti-r  then  >hall  )»<■  tlic  voice 

Ot'  ln\rV  enchanting  Mrain, 
And  all  ili«i-.r  fondly  clicri.'^lii'd  sn*nes,^ 

Wr'll  ii\e  them  oV*r  a<rain  ! 


THE  LE.\F'S  COMPUUNT. 

A  LKAF,  that  elmnccd  to  ftil  one  dij, 

Down  by  the  garden  wall. 
Began  to  oiouni,  in  penaiTe  ■traim^ 

Its  sad,  untimelj  iklL 

^  And  must  I  lie  on  thu  cold  eaitb, 

AVith  dying  things  artxiDd, 
And  lose  tlu?  bloom  which  graced  nj  jmdL 

An<l  sink  into  the  ground  ? 

"^  i^fy  {larent  was  yon  monaidli 

The  loAiest  top  in  air ; 
And  though  I  am  m  loirljr  now, 

1'was  )>roud  to  haire  me  there. 


*'  Tlie  birds  oft  lit  upon  mr 
Their  sweetest  aongis  to  flings 

And  ever  calhil,  mc  in  their  hij% 
The  fairest  leaf  of  Spring. 


^  The  dews  of  night  lay  on  mj 

And  drank  the  fragrance  iheie^ 
AVliich  moniingV  orient  beams  rihiM, 


Perfuming  all  the  air. 


'*  When  Sol's  fierce  rays  had 
charms. 

And  droopingly  I  hung, 
Uefrohing  showers  came  to  mj  aid, 

And  i^oolness  round  me  flung. 

"*  Soft  zephyrs  rocked  my  natire  iffsf, 

And  vigils  rouml  me  kept, 
Wh<'n  all  the  stars  came  out  at  ni^gbli 

To  smile  :ts  Nature  i&lept. 

**  Aye,  when  I  grow  and  proodly  vafvd 

I'jKni  my  native  bough. 
All  i-iune  oli^i*(|uioufl  to  mjr  will| 
But  all  forssike  me  now ! 


**Thr  wiiitK  that  came  no  soft  and 

To  hill  me  to  n*|K)6ie, 
NdW  lii-ap  \ile  rubbish  on  mj 

With  <-ver\*  breath  that  blowSi 


1840-50.] 


SIDNEY    DYER. 


381 


"  The  rains,  that  once  refreshing  came 

As  nectar  from  the  gods, 
Now  seek  to  press  me  lower  still, 

Beneath  these  filthy  clods. 

**  The  gentle  dews,  once  soft  and  mild, 
Now  chill  my  shrinking  form ; 

And  here  I  lie,  a  friendless  one, 
For  vilest  things  to  scorn  ! 

"  E'en  vulgar  weeds,  so  lately  proud 

To  dwell  heneath  my  shade. 
Now  rudely  cry  *  Away !  away  I ' 

K  near  their  roots  I'm  laid. 

^  Ah !  why  do  all  forsake  me  now, 

When  most  I  stand  in  need. 
And  rend  with  keener  pangs  a  heart 

Already  made  to  bleed  ? 

"  Earth's  fiiendships  ever  thus  are  false 

As  baseless  visions  are ; 
When  naught  is  craved,  they  all  would  give, 

When  much,  they've  naught  to  spare ! 

**  But  cease  ;  I  will  no  more  complain. 
Though  friendless  now  and  riven ; 

For  those  who  suffer  most  on  earth, 
Enjoy  the  most  of  heaven  I " 


HIT  THE  NAIL  ON  THE  HEAD. 

This  world  is  no  hive  where  the  drone  may 
repose, 
Willie  others  are  gleaning  its  honey  witl; 
care; 
Nor  will  he  succeed  who  is  dealing  his 
blows 
At  random,  and  recklessly  hits  every 
where. 
But  choose  well  your  purpose,  then  breast 
to  the  strife, 
And  hold  to  it  firmly,  by  rectitude  led ; 


Give  your  heart  to  that  duty,  and  strike 
for  your  life. 
And  with  every  stroke,  hit  the  nail  on 
the  head. 

If  fate  is  against  you  ne'er  falter  nor  fret, 
'Twill  not  mend  your  fortunes  nor  light- 
en your  load ; 
Be  earnest,  still  earnest,  and  you  will  for- 
get 
You  e'er  had  a  burden  to  bear  on  the 
road. 
And  when  at  the  close,  what  a  pleasure  to 
know, 
That  you,  never  flinching,  however  life 
sped. 
Grave  you  heart  to  your  duty,  your  strength 
to  each  blow. 

And  with  every  stroke,  hit  the  nail  on 
the  head. 


MY  MOTHER»S  EASY  CHAIR. 

The  days  of  my  youth  have  all  silently 
sped. 
And  my  locks  are  now  grown  thin  and 
gray; 
My  hopes,  like  a  dream  in  the  morning, 
have  fied. 
And  nothing  remains  but  decay ; 
Yet,  I  seem  but  a  child,  as  I  was  long 

ago, 
When  I  stood  by  the  form  of  my  sire. 
And  my  dear  mother  sung,  as  she  ix>cked 
to  and  fro 
In  the  old  easy  chair  by  the  fire. 

Oh,  she  was  my  guardian  and  guide  all  the 
day. 
And  the  angel  who  watched  round  my 
bed; 
Her  voice  in  a  murmur  of  prayer  died 
away 
For  blessings  to  rest  on  my  head. 


H82 


SIDNEY    DYER. 


[lM»4i 


TliMi  1  tti(iii;!ht  lu'Vr  un  uiigel  that  heaven 
(imM  know, 
Tlion;rh  tniincd  in  its  own  |)oerl<»ss  ohoir, 
CoiiM  sin<r  like  my  motlier,  who  rocked  to 
and  tro 
In  tlie  <»Id  I'a'ty  chair  by  the  fire. 


I  low  holy  tlie  plai'e  a.s  we  gathered   at 
ni;:ht, 
Koinid  the  ahar  where  |>eai*e  ever  dwelt. 
To  join  in  an  antlicni  of  |»nii<e,  and  nnite 

In  thanks  which  our  lii'art>  trulv  fch. 
In  his  sacH'd  old  ^cat,  with  his  locks  white 
as  snow, 
Sat  the  venenihle  fonn  of  my  &irc, 
AViiilc  my  dear  mother  sung,  as  she  rocked 
to  and  fro 
In  the  old  easy  chair  by  the  fire. 


The   cotta;;e   is   gone   whi(*h   my  infancy 
knew. 
And  tin;  phure  is  des{x)ile<i  of  its  charms, 
l^Iy  t'riends  are  all  g:itliercd  beneath   the 
old  yew, 
And  clumber  in  death's  folde<1  arms; 
But  t»t\en   with   nipture  my  bosom  doth       jf  j„,  ^,^„  ^^^.j,  ^^  ^^^^  of  toff  * 

^**»^^-  ^hlnllH.r^ 

A>  I  think  of  my  home  and  my  iiiro. 

And  tlM*<k':in'st  of  mothers  who  sung  long; 


TIS  BtmrEIl  LATE  THAK  XEViS. 

LiPF.  ij<  a  rare  where  mmiw  lacmA 

Wliilt*  other?  are  lieginnini^; 
'Tb*  luck  at  time  A,  at  oihen  "p^ed, 

That  (rives  an  early  winna^ 
But  if  yf»u  chanct;  to  fall  beUnd, 

N<*Vt  slacken  your  emlravor; 
Ju'^t  keep  this  wholesome  (rntli  to  aiai 

'Tis  b(*tter  late  than  nercr. 

If  you  can  keep  ahead,  *Uf  wdl, 

But  never  trip  your  nei^lMr; 
"Tis  noble  when  yoa  can  exeel 

By  honest,  {latient  labor; 
But  if  you  are  outstripped  at  hi^ 

Pn's:s  on  VL*  bold  as  ever; 
Hememl>er,  though  joa  an 

Tis  better  Ute  than  never! 


POWER  OF  SONG. 
IIowKVER  humble  be  the  baid 


airo. 


In  the  old  easy  chair  by  the  fire  I 


COMINC  IK^ME. 

Apir.t' — i-i  nitrred  with  a  >i;xh, 

l-'-!!'.  \v<"|| — \\v  »|M:ik  in  {niin  ; 
\Vr  f\fr  part  wiih  (i-art'iil  cyt-s, 

\V«-  iii:)\    lint  nn-i]  :fj:iiii; 
l*'i'    I'l.  ilp-n*  i-  :i  li!i'-tiil  word, 

^VlM■M  bre:illn"d  bv  tlm-f  who  HKim, 
\V;.i  h  li.iilU  witli   inv  w Ii<-ne\er  heard. 

Ti>.  eoniin;;,  <*oniin<;  home! 


His  name  aliove  the  proudcat  line 
Shall  live  immortal  in  his  tnuhfal  itf 

b«.*rs. 

The  name  of  him  who  snng  of  **  HflS 
Swei't  Home," 
Is  now  enshrined  with  ereij  holffcriisf 

And  tlion;;h  he  sleeps  lienealh  no  ma 
dom<>, 
Kaeh  heart  a  pilgrim  at  his 
kn<'eling. 

The  siiiiple  lays  that  wake  lo  leafB  ^ 
-nn;:. 
Lik"  eiionls  of  feiding  fron  the  bh 
taken. 
An'  in  the  lN»<iom  of  the  singer  iliwig^ 
Wliieli  cM-ry  tlinibbing  hi^tti.Mhr  ri 
awaken. 


HANNAH   E.  G.  AREY. 


TNAH  Ellen  Grannis  Aret,  a  native  of  Cavendish,  Vermont,  where  she 
)m  on  the  fourteenth  daj  of  April,  1819,  began  her  literary  career  in  Cleve- 
)hio,  as  a  contributor  to  the  Daily  Herald  of  that  city.  Her  father,  John 
is,  was  a  member  of  the  Provincial  ParUament  of  Canada,  at  the  breaking  out 
rebellion  in  1837,  and  he  aflerward  held  offices  of  trust  under  the  United  States 
imenl, 

nah  Ellen  was  one  of  the  earliest  of  that  band  of  young  women,  now  some- 
lumerous  in  this  country,  who  pursued  the  course  of  study  marked  out  for  the 
its  of  a  liberal  education  among  the  opposite  sex.  She  was  for  several  years 
IS  to  1848,  a  successful  and  much  beloved  school-teacher  in  Cleveland.  In 
ear  she  married  Oliver  Arey.  Soon  after  marriage  she  turned  her  attention 
?aching  to  editing,  and  has  for  several  years  conducted  periodicals  for  the  fire- 
Buffalo  and  New  York.  "  The  Youth's  Casket,"  of  which  she  was  Editor, 
e  "Home  Monthly,"  which  she  now  conducts,  have  endeared  her  to  many 
In  1855  Mrs.  Arey  published  a  volume  of  Poems* — the  introduction  to 
is  in  lines  on  *' Myself,"  describing  a  girl  who  had  made  intimate  acquaintance 
ees,  rocks  and  streams : 

I  knew  the  tree  where  slept  the  crows, 

And,  on  the  water's  brim, 
I  climbed  among  the  hemlock  boughs, 

To  watch  the  fishes  swim. 

I  knew  beside  the  swollen  rill, 

What  flowers  to  bloom  would  buret ; 
And  where,  upon  the  south-sloped  hill, 

The  berries  ripened  first 

Each  violet  tuft,  each  cowslip  green, 

Each  daisy  on  the  lea, 
I  counted  one  by  one — for  they 

Were  kith  and  kin  to  me. 

I  knew  the  moles  that  dared  to  claim 

The  banished  beaver's  huts ; 
And  Bat  on  mossy  logs  to  watch 

The  8quirrel8  crack  their  nuts. 

And  they  winked  slyly  at  me,  too, 

But  never  fled  away. 
For  in  their  little  hearts  they  knew 

That  I  was  wild  as  they. 

*  HoQflehold  Songs  and  other  Poema.    New  York :  Derby  fc  Jackson,  1856.    12mo,  pp.  254. 


(383 


384  HANNAH    E.   G.   AKKY.  [1M*-M 

I A   carp«!t    deep  of   withered    Invo  ir 
AUTUMN.  HpifaJ, 

TiiEUE-a  a  deep  wuiling  in  the  voiw  ofl     ^'*"«*'    "^    "^^    *^    *«*    "-^ 
waves  j         "«>""•'' 

That  late  wore  rii.jriiist  witli  a  thildidi : ^w'.  *•  ""r  ean-lew  foofarteps  o'er  iIm 


■©"•o 


llW. ; 


trt'ud, 
We   listen   lingering  to   their 
>oiind, 
Just  :ui  we  did  in  childlioodv  ere  we 


And   the    white   billow,  to   the   beach  it 

laves 
Advances  with  a  sol«Mnn  majesty,  , 

To  bath(;  the  scattr-red  gi^nus  of  summer's  ^^^^   '"""X  **"™*n   hearts  Uj  wiihenif 

cn)wn,  "^"' 

Or  bear  them  to  the  caves  of  silence  down.i  , 

ihtill   watchful  wake  the   myrtlc'i  aun 

And  the  wild  winds  are  wandering  with  a  ^)^'^ 

ll^^lW  I     Still  robed  in  green  the  trailing  vflkfv 

Of  deeper  music,   'mid   the   thin   jmle  waves, 

1     .^.y.  But   the  |mle  wreck  of  manj  a  prU 

' '  '         r . 

That   to   the   bough  are   fondly  clinging.  "*"*♦ 

^^l]}.  AH    cI«iM-Iy   cradled   in   the   place  ti 

And  yet  doth  every  whispered  breath,  {?"*^*'**i 

tiial  «'rieves  ,Ne^tlinJr,  iu  death,  amid  the  ffauabom 

Their  ftuled  l)eauty,  hasten  their  decav,  then.*, 

And    bear    them   to   their    burial    place. ^'''M^o""!!?  fragnmcc  on  the 

.llius  dofh  the  memory  of  the 
The    s])n^ading    maple   doffs   his   turban  dead, 

rt'd,  I      Ui>on  our  thouglit«  in  grateful  i 

Like  an  old  garment — and  the  lH?ech'  ri-e, 

le:if  pale,  .And,  ihou;!h  their  Hpirits  from  the 

As  f:ilU  the  silver  from  a  vet«»r:in  head,  hav«*  fled, 

Fluai>  <lownward  softly  on  the  nmrmur-       The  Inve  which  bore  them  upward 

iuir  jr;tl'',  **"'  *'*^'^'^ 

And  ilir  -:nl  ItM-ii-t.  bi'ndiii;r  U*  the  bn*eze,  I^  with  us  >till,  all  [lowerful  to  impart 
(ireen  at  his  feet,  hi-  rent  ti:ini  sees.  A  fragnimv  to  the  Autumn  of  the 


The  hmI  sun  peer-^  adnwn  the  ha/y  >ky,  i>ut  in  otir  bn*iLot, — like  lliose  pale  kam 

And    -teals  unehalleii^ri'd,  thixiugh   the  that  >le«*p 

tiip'ot  hai*e.  Ciii.-trn'd    within    the    hollow*  of  ik 

Sfrkiiiir   lie'    n<H)ks   where  |MTishetl  hlos-  tnmli — 

Miiii-  li(>,  r|M>n  the  ^inivc's  of  buried  hope*  fie^fvf 

Wi'tliil    to    kin»w    if  lifi'    1m*    linfrerin;r  Tlie    wiilii-n'd    tluwers   of    lile**  fwfrt 

till  :-f,  Ml niini'r  bloom  ; 

Ami  tlr<iM;:li  hi-  h«:ini- a  «;«-iiial  warmth  And  nn-iimry  hfar?  their  rustling. ai  Af 

i-  ~l.»«l  -Iravs 

■ 

As   it'  li<     -tnivi*  to  woo  them  from   the  *Mitl   tho-e   drii*«l    garlands   of 
<l(-ail.  I  day>. 


18M-50.] 


UANNAU    E.    G.    AKEV. 


Oh !  thejr  are  penaive  thoughts  that  round 
us  throng, 
When    the    first    wreaths  of  joy   are 
brown  and  sere, 
And,  li!<tt!Ding  for  the  accuBtomed  voice  of 
song, 
Life's    withered   foliage  rustles  on  the 

The  voice  of  birds, — the  hum  of  streams, — 

the  round 
Of  gay  winged  insects,  changed  lor  this 

one  sound. 


THANKSGIVING. 

COHE  forth,  come  forth,  to  the  festal  board, 
As  our  sires  were  wont  in  the  days  of 
old; 
The  reapers  arc  home  with  their  harvest 

The  herds  have  hied  to  their  winfry 
fold. 
And  the  cullers  of  fruit  our  vaults  have 

With  the  wealth  of  the  orchard's  freight 
of  gold. 


But  garnered  in  the  spirit's  trwuure-cell. 
Lies  a  rich  harvest  gleaned  from  sum- 
mer toil ;  Come  forth,  come  (bnh,  with  your  heart- 
And  he  who  life's  young  plants  hulli  nur-'  '*'"  1"''*'' 

tured  well  '     ^"^  "**'"'''  ^^  songs  at  the  attar's  side; 

From  many  a  weary  field  bears  back  a  ^""l «  '"'^y  1"^""  '»  *^*^  *«  >«««. 
spoil, 
Whose  golden  store^i  Ui'eulhc  forth  the  les- 


son deep, 
That  as  the  laborer  s 


!  his  hand  sliall 


And  though    the    earth's  faded    flowers 

above  the  tomb 

Of  long  departed   hopes  may   thickly 

And  summer  birds  no  more  their  songs 

Still    doth    the    heart  a  richer    store 

possess. 
If,  far  beneath,  by  those  pale  leaves  o'l 

blown, 
The  seed  of  Everlasting  Life  be  sown. 

Its  crown  of  green  yon  forest  shall  resume, 
And  other  fiowers  full  soon  to  earth  be 
given ; 
But  ere   tlie   soul   renew   its  spring-tide 

Its  budding  leaves  must  feel  the  a 

And  from  the  gnive  of  early  hope  shall 

A.  fadeless  plant  to  blossom  in  the  skies. 


Who  hath  scattered  His  love  gifts  iroe 
and  wide, 
And  still,  livm  the  wan  earth's  earUest 

His   seed-time   and   harvest    hath  not 
denied. 

Come  forth — to  the  haunts  of  yoor  child- 
hood, come; 
To  the  roof  in  whose  shadow  your  life 

By  the  hearth  of  the  houseliold  there  yet 

Where  your  breath  of  thanksgiving  was 

The  faggot  is  blazing  your  welcome  home, 
^^d  from  joyful  lips  shall  your  greeting 

There's  a  ruddy  tinge   on   the   wiinUed 
cheek. 
For  the  pulse  of  age  hath  a  quicker 
ttow; 
And  a  gleam,  like  the  light  of  youth  doth 
break 
'Mid  the  care-worn   shades  on  the  old 
man's  brow, 


»m; 


HANNAH    K.    (;.    AKKY. 


[1»M 


For  the  vi>ions  of  cl<i  in  \m  soul  awakt* : 
The  SIM  •IK'S  of  \\h  childhood  are  round 
him  now. 

Oh,  this  is  a  day  when  the  thought  goes 
bai'k 
OVr  the   flowery   paths   of  our  early 
years ; 
AVhere  the  garlands  of  joy  liave  Rtrewn 
tlie  track 
And  liidd(*n  the  graves  of  our  hopes 
and  fi*ars, 
And  the  names  of  the  friends  whose  tones 
we  lack, 
Steal  over  the  heart  like  a  gush  of  tears. 


Wp  hallow  the  day  u  oar  &t1ien  diA. 
AVitli  a  mingling  of  glodneM*  aad  pn 
imd  pmyer, 
AViih  a  willing  boon  for  the  lowlica  « 
Tluit  the  hungry  and  poor  in  oarihi 
may  share. 
That  tlif  sciintit^t  tabic  be  Avrly  «fr 
And  the  lip  of  tlie  iiKNimer  a  Uok 
bear. 


For  the  sods  of  the  feeble  pilfrim  b 
Who  first  on  a  fli«tant  mck-boond  b 

Oave  thanks  for  the  gifb»  of  the  trei 
land, 
Have  spn^ad  over  mountain  and  icn 

AWUV  * 

Tis  the  hour  when  kindn>d  circles  meet —  •  '  , 

,,»    .    .-11         »  «i  11  ^1  And  a  sfin*;  of  pm»e  i>hau  to  God  air 

ihat  still  must  the  wanderer  iLomewanl        ^  .         . 

,   .  From  a  myriud  of  buminff  lip*  i»di 

bnng^  ^  -o    r- 

When  the  echo  of  childhocxl's  tindcss  feet. 

Through    the    halls   of    their    father's 

homestead  ring — 

When  gladness  breathes  in  the  tones  we'      ''^^  j«»>y":' i 
^  iCome  muisrlc 

greet, 

And  a  murmur  of  love  to  the  lips  doth 
spring. 


Come  forth,  come  forth,  with  the  rka 
liell, 

A  jovons  throne  to  the  altar'i  ndr; 
glc  yuur  tones  with  the  mp 
swfll ; 
And,  where  the  door  of  the  feaft  «■ 


widts 

Ctune  forth,  come  forth,  to  tlie  humlde  <-ot.  Let  the  gray-haired  sire  to  lut 
Wlii're  the  children  of  want  ami  sorrow  tell 


rove 


A  tale  of  our  Nation**  gntciy  pnii 


THE  FIREVAX. 


Wliere  the  hand  of  tin*  n'aj»<»r  gamers  not 
The    stores   that   a    Fatln-r's   gooihi<*ss 
prove ; 
And  the  iK>or  mmi  weeps  for  the  toilsome 
lot. 
Kntailcil  on  the  hrir*  of  hi>  earnest  love.j 

A  MM)  th(*  flames  be  stood, 
(*nini*  forth  to  the  fii-lds  with  the  heart       Ami    the    white     smoke    fimtd   h 
which  leaves  I  wn*atli — 

A  hle*>iij;:,  wlnivvt-r  its  tnu'c  app**ar>  ;  And  iln-  •.willing  waves  of  the  fieij  t*" 
Ti  IilIi'i  n  iIm'  -oiii:  uliitli  -nri<»w  \vim\«--,       C'.init-  .-ur^riiig  from  bcncatlL 
Wln'p'  jM>v«'rtvV  |>oiMioii   is  ^li'tprd  in 

(lar^ ;  Tlic  crarkling  timlN*rs  reeM-* 

'  I  ^ 

\-A    till  iy     liiiigi    truin     vtnir    liur^iii;:  Ai.d  (li*- ln-.tinK  ranie  glfamia^d^t^ 

>!i(.i\<'.,  Lilvi' tlii-  >c:iitfn.'d  woullh  thai  the  fa^ 

Liki*  the  reapers  of  IUki/,  the  gh'aning  \i«  Id, 

e:Lr.-.  When  their  autumn  laai 


1840-5a] 


HANNAH    E.    6.    AREY. 


387 


The  tempest  howled  in  wrath, 
And  the  fire  wheeled  madly  on. 

And  the  embers,  far,  on  the  wind's  wild 
path. 
Through  the  murky  night,  had  gone. 

0 

Yet  there,  in  his  pride,  he  stood, 
With  a  steady  hand,  and  strong; 

And  his  ax  came   down  on  the  burning 
wood. 
Till  the  heart  of  the  old  oak  rung. 

There  was  many  an  earnest  eye, 

Through  the  rolling  smoke,  that  gazed, 

While  he  stood,  with  his  dauntless  soul, 
and  high. 
Where  the  hottest  fire-brands  blazed. 

And  prayers  were  faltered  forth. 
From  the  aged,  and  the  young ; 

For    the    safety   of   many   a    household 
hearth. 
On  the  strokes  of  his  strong  arm  hung. 

There  was  many  a  proud  knight  there, 
AVith  his  mantle  round  him  rolled, 

That  aloof,  in  the  light  of  that  sweeping 
fire. 
Stood  shivering  in  the  cold. 

And  ofl  from  the  firemen's  bands, 
A  summons  for  aid  was  heard ; 

But  never  the  tips  of  their  well-gloved 
hands, 
From  their  ermined  cloaks  were  stirred. 

And  no  white  and  fervent  lip, 
For  their  welfare,  or  safety  prayed ; 

For  no  children's  weal  and  no  mother's 
hope, 
In  the  strength  of  their  arms  was  stayed. 

TVcre  I  searching  earth's  mingled  throng 
For  shelter,  my  claim  would  be 

A  hand,  like  that  Fireman's,  nerved  and 
strong, 
And  a  fearless  heart  for  me. 


FAMK 

Fame  !  not  for  me,  if  my  heart's  life  must 
pay  for  it! 
What!  shall  I  seek  it  through  falsehood 
and  wrong? 
Trample  down  honor  and  truth,  to  make 
way  for  it? 
Truckle,  and  smile  for  the  praise  of  the 
throng? 
Not  while  this  earth  rolls  I  the  hand  that 
shall  offer  me 
Guerdon  so  worthless  hath  never  been 
bom, 
I — if  this  gaud  is  the  prize  that  ye  proffer 
me — 
Fling  back  the  gifl  with  ineffable  soom. 

Lo,  I  see  throngs  quaff  the  goblet  Fame 
crushed  for  them — 
Clusters  of  Peace  poured  their  life  in 
that  wine; — 
Grapes  of  pure  Truth,  in  Grod's  sunshine 
that  blushed  for  them. 
Yielded  their  forms  for  its  sparkle,  and 
shine; 
Bring  it  not — ^name  it  not : — sweet  things 
are  blessing  me 
Down  in  the  pathway  obscure  where  I 
tread; 
In,  by  the  fireside,  sofl  hands  are  caress- 
ing me ; — 
Out,  in  the  sunlight,  God's  smile  is  o'er- 
head. 

Cull  these  sweet  home-flowers  to  twine  a 
proud  wreath  for  me  ? 
Yield,  for  that  thorn-crown,  these  gar- 
lands of  love  ? 

Not  while  fond  hearts  and  pale  violets  can 
breathe  for  me 
Bliss  that  the  angels  might  stoop  for 
above. 

Back  with  thy  tempting,  pure  hands  shall 
win  bread  for  me ; — 


3K8 


HANNAH    E.    G.    AREY. 


[1SI»S4 


G(n1,  for  the  powen  He  has  given,  bo 
my  guide : 
And  if  '*  Weil  done,  thou  fuithful "  at  List 
may  be  imd  fur  uie, 
What  is  tlie  erowu  tliat  this  world  give^ 
beside  ? 


For  ehi'crily  still  as  our  belb  buit  riafs; 
Old  Time  ne*er  stays  on  his  restleM  viae 
And  home  we  hahte  with  oar  spirits  lifiM 
Though  all  too  short  is  the  winter's  ai^: 


SLKIGH  -RIDING. 

Mkrkilt  ho!  our  light  nlei^hs  go, 
Gli<ling  like  spirit>  alonfr  th<*,  8now ; 
Hnioing  and  pun*  is  the  (•h»ar,  «>ld  air — 
Cozy  and  warm  an?  the  n)lM*8  we  w<'4ir; 
Merrily  out  tlir  slfi^^h  Im'Hs  chime ; 
Our  pulses  liound,  and  our  hearts  keep 

time ; 
The  skies  an>  fair,  and  the  stars  an*  bright. 
Ho !  ibr  the  joys  of  the  winter's  nighL 

Darkly  and  grim  tlu'  fon-sts  fn>wn. 

With   their  snowy  lM)U«:hs,  and  shadows 

brown ; 
The  nibbit  steals  fn)m  his  sheltered  don, 
But  s|>ceds,  as  we  come,  to  its  haunts  aipiin. 
And  creeping  back,  as  our  sh*i<!h-b<.'Us  trill, 
Thf  sly  fox  barks  in  tlie  darknt* ss  still  : 
Tiie  shadows  an*  }»ast,  and  away  wi>  pi, 
Over  the  drifL"*  of  th«j  cnickling  snow. 

Ix»n<*ly  the  linhts  .shine  ln.*re,  and  there. 
KnHu  scatten'<l  cols  on  the  woodland  ban*: 
A  vil!a;r<-  i-*  hen*  wIkisc  wind«iws  bri^^lit,  | 
Twinkh*  like  ho|j«',  on  the  du>ky  ni^rlit,  ! 
Ami  i*cho<?s  of'  piy,  youn;r  voices  sound,  i 
FniU)  gn)Ups  that  gsithcr  the  hearthstones; 
round :  ' 

A  Ides s in j;  we  bn*athe,  and  on  we  speed. 
I'ar  in  the  tnick  of  the  tin-lc'is  steed. 

Mi-rrily  ho!  our  li;:ht  sleijrhs  p«>, 

{ tiiiliii^  like  9]iirit>  alon<r  the  >m)W ; 

l»u[    >on«l<r    the    miMin*s    broad    disc   li:i«( 

come. 
Over  ihtr  t«)ri'>ts  to  want  us  home; 


HOME  SONG. 

Now,  thrust  my  thimble  in  it* 

And  store  the  s|iooLs  awar. 
And  lay  the  mu<lin  rolls  in  place; 

^ly  tiu<k  is  done  to-day ; 
For,  like  the  workmen's  evening  brO. 

A  sound  hath  met  my  ean. 
The  frate-cli(*k  by  the  street  doth  leO 

l'a|»a  has  come,  my  dearft. 
Hear  otl*  the  toy-lMjx  from  the  floor— 

For  yonder  cluiir  make  room; 
And  up,  and  out — unliar  the  door, 

And  bn*athe  his  welcome  home; 
For  *tis  tlie  twilight  hour  of  joj, 

Whf.'n  Home's  be>t  pleasures  niBji 
And  I  will  clasp  my  darling  boj. 

While  pa|>a  rom|>s  with  AUie. 


There,  take  the  hat.  and  p1ove«| 

Tiie  slip|N*rs,  warm  and  aoA, 
Whilt^  iNiunds  the  babe,  with  ki^  mi 
sj>ring. 

In  ilio-e  loved  anns  aloll. 
And  h't  t>aeh  nook  some  comfoit  jk 

Kji'Ii  lieiirt  with  love  he 
For  him,  whose  tirm,  strong 
shield 

llie  houH'hold  pxls  from 
Our  love  >iiiill  Ii;;li(  thf  gathering  gbi*: 

For.  o*er  all  earthly  hopf\ 
We  elicri-li  fir^t  the  joys  of  home; 

A  glait.  n  joiciiig  groupu 
And  tlii-on;:li  the  twilight  hoarof  joj. 

We  turn  from  toiL  to  daily 
With  thy  young  dn*ams  of  lift!,  mj  bift 

And  g:iily  fondle  Allie. 


SUSAN  W.  JEWETT. 


Susan  W.  Jewett,  wife  of  Charles  A.  Jewett,  who  is  widely  known  in  the  West 
as  an  engayer,  is,  we  believe,  a  native  of  Massachusetts.  Between  the  years  1840 
and  1857,  she  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  periodicals  and  journals  of  Cincinnati. 
In  1847  she  conducted  a  monthly  magazine  for  children,  called  the  Youth* s  Visitor, 
which  was  a  favorite  wherever  it  became  known.  In  1856,  Truman  and  Spofiford, 
Cincinnati,  published  for  Mrs.  Jewett  "  The  Old  Comer  Cupboard,'*  a  duodecimo  vol- 
ume of  three  hundred  and  four  pages,  composed  of  prose  sketches  and  poems,  illus- 
trating "  the  every-day  life  of  every-day  people." 


THE  PAST. 

Weep  not  for  what  is  past, 
With  vain  and  fruitless  tears. 

But  husband  well  thy  strength, 
To  serve  the  coming  years. 

In  noble  deeds,  not  idle  grief. 

Let  the  true  soul  find  sweet  relief. 

Mourn  not  for  what  is  past, 

Though  every  passing  day 
Some  pathway  may  disclose. 

Where  thou  hast  gone  astray. 
Tears  will  but  cloud  thy  feeble  sight — 
Not  guide  thee  to  the  way  of  right. 

Weep  not  for  what  is  past ; 

Not  tears  of  blood  will  bring 
One  wasted  moment  back, 

Or  stay  Time's  rapid  wing. 
Pour  not  thy  soul's  best  life  away — 
Begin  anew  to  live — to-day. 


Oh !  weep  not  for  the  past, 
Though  in  its  dark  domain, 

The  forms  thou  lov'st  are  bound 
By  adamantine  chain. 

The  deathless  spirit  should  not  be 

So  fettered  to  mortality. 


What  doth  the  grave  enfold. 

That  there  thy  thoughts  should  turn  ? 
Colder  the  clay  beneath 

Than  monumental  urn. 
The  lost  to  thee — to  life  are  bom — 
Rejoice,  then,  in  their  natal  mom  I 

The  past !  that  narrow  span 

Is  nothing  now  to  thee, 
Poor  prisoner  of  time, 

Yet  in  thine  infancy  I 
The  soul  should  earthly  thrall  despise — 
The  future  hath  no  boundaries. 


MY  MOTHER. 


Mt  mother !  long,  long  years  have  passed. 
Since  half  in  wonder,  half  in  dread, 

I  looked  upon  thy  clay-cold  face, 

And  heard  the  whisper — ^**She  is  dead!" 


The  memory  of  thine  earthly  form 
Is  dim  as  a  remembered  dream, 

But  year  by  year,  more  close  to  mine 
Doth  thy  celestial  spirit  seem* 
(389) 


:vjo 


SlrfAN    W.    JKWETT. 


[l^ 


AVIicn  by  tlie  nioiil(i<Titi^  >{onv  I  stoiNi, 
Wliich  murks  tli<'>iK>t  whoru  thuuurt  laid. 

And  with  the  dui>i(.'»  on  the  .<od, 
My  little  child  in  (jhidiicss  played. 

Oh !  how  my  spirit  loiijr<*d  to  know 
If  fn>m  tlip  hfijrlit-*  of  heavenly  joy, 

The  love,  that  watched  my  infant  years, 
Looked  down  to  bless  my  bright-eyed 
boy! 

And  when  by  anfruish  cruslied  and  worn, 
I  watched  my  bud  of  beauty  fade, 

And  in  the  cold  and  f;hastly  tomb 
Beheld  hid  liielesn  body  laid ; 

And  stranger  eyes  beheld  my  grief, 
Who  in  my  joys  had  bonie  no  |mrt. 

Oh,  how  I  thirsted  then  for  thee, 
To  lift  the  load  from  oil'  my  heart  I 

I  know  my  faith  is  not  a  dream ; 

Aly  life  from  thine  no  jwwer  can  wrest ; 
Death's  icy  hand  can  never  chill 

The  love  that  wanns  a  mother's  bn»ast 

And  surely  God  through  thee  hath  taught 
Mv  soul  submission  to  his  will, 

AVitli  fmtient  trust  an<l  child-like  love, 
That  I  can  suflcr  and  be  still. 


Though  eyes  k)  bright,  and  foniu  «o  d 
Ilave  vwiifthed  from  mj  paihwaj  here 

When  aches  the  void  within  mj  waL 
And  mid  the  gay  aiid  noli^y  cnmd. 

My  heart  grows  ^ick  with  bitter  thoo^ 
Of  ghastly  death  and  chillj  shroud. 

And  tho>e  I  love,  se«*m  lurit  for  btc^ 

Leave  me  alone  with  God,  to  pnj- 

It  smooths  tlie  troubled  wares  of  grwC 
In  quiet  thought  to  sit  awhile ; 

When  one  by  one  the  lort  rrtum, 
And    wann   me   with    their   hcavo 
smile. 

It  is  no  dream — how  well  I  feel 

Their  sacred  influence  lound  ne  anal 


Tlie  autumn  winds  are  sighing 
The  yellow  leaves  are  tbicklj 

I3ocay  mid  death  in  all  I 
Recall  the  lio|»cs  forerer 

The  autumn  wind — the  leailcM  booflk 

Hath  mournful  meaning  to 


But  leave  me,  gentle  fKendi,  awhik, 
That  I  may  wise  my  grief  by 

For  still  before  me  shines  a  light 
To  giiidt*  and  hle>s  mj 

A  calmer,  steadier,  holier  nir« 

Tiien  dawn<.*<l  u|ion  my  life's 


LKAVK  MH 

Lkavk  me.  for  I  would  he  alone; 

Y<'t,  lea<t  alone,  whrn  all  are  fled, 
For  n<-urest  then  the  loved  oih'S  come. 

Whom  \v(*  are  wont  to  call  tlu*  dead! 
But  fl(HL*r  do  our  thou;;hts  entwine, 
Wiit-n  thtir  fn'rd  s[>irii9  met^t  with  mine. 

N<ir  \tr]/.i'  I  livinpr  fri^-nd-i  tlio  less, 
Wlio  fiivf  to  lift*  it-*  holi«*-l  ii;:ht ; 

Tli'ir  <'hrrrful  tt«n'-.  thrir  fh«*«Ting  smile; 
Thi-ir  eyt's  with  fond  affection  bright. 


And  by  its  light,  so  pure  and 
My  spirit  feebly  strives  to 

Hevond  tin*  mists  of  wlfish 

Uryoiid  dcathV  gloomy  mjsttij; 

And  as  al(>n«\  I  strive  and  pniji 

I  s(H>  tht>  i-arth-elouds  pass  awaj. 


:  Then  drink.4  m v  soal,  so 

t 

:     (W  living  streams  that  cauMl  fA 
j  And  faith  awakes  to  newer  Vie, 
I     And  KK»ks  beyond  the  llesyy  vils 
s'  And  evt>n  the  murkiest  elondf  of  ON 
,  The  hues  of  hearenlj 


LUELLA  J.  B.  CASE. 


A  J.  Bartlett  Case  is  a  native  of  Kingston,  New  Hampshire.  Her 
er,  Josiah  Bartlett,  was  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Indepen- 
n  the  year  1828  Miss  Bartlett  was  married,  at  Lowell,  Massachusetts,  to 
Case-  About  the  year  1845  Mr.  Case  emigrated  to  the  West,  and,  soon 
ame  one  of  the  editors  and  proprietors  of  the  Oincinnati  Enquirer,  Mrs. 
ributed  to  the  columns  of  the  Enquirer  several  poems  on  Western  themes, 
e  year  1850  Mr.  Case  removed  his  family  firom  Cincinnati  to  Patriot,  In- 
ir  which  town  he  cultivates  a  farm. 


THE  INDIAN  RELIC. 

ago  was  mode  thy  grave, 

Ohio's  languid  wave, 
primeval  forests  dim 
i  to  the  wild  bird's  hymn  ; 
:hat  lone  and  quiet  bed, 
>f  the  unknown  dead, 
rt  thou,  a  mouldering  thing, 
.mougst  the  bloom  of  spring? 

1  gem  the  fresh,  young  gi*ass ; 
breezes  o'er  thee  pass  ; 
;'s  voice,  in  tree  and  flower, 
ers  of  a  waking  hour ; 
J  sounds  below  are  ringing ; 
iround  thee  joyous  singing — 
uj)on  this  height  alone 
'iving  power  hast  known ! 

;rt  thou  of  human  form, 
?ith  all  life's  instincts  warm, — 
ig  at  the  storm  of*  grief, 
be  frailest  forest  leaf, — 
I  bounding  pulse — an  eye 
'ning  o'er  its  loved  ones  nigh, 
neath  this  cairn  of  trust 
ras  laid  to  blend  with  dust. 


When  the  red  man  ruled  the  wood, 
And  his  frail  canoe  yon  flood. 
Hast  thou  held  the  unerring  bow 
That  the  an  tiered  head  laid  low  ? 
And  in  battle's  fearful  strife 
Swung  the  keen,  remorseless  knife  ? 
Or,  with  woman's  loving  arm, 
Shielded  helplessness  from  harm  ? 

Silent !  silent !     Naught  below 
O'er  thy  past  a  gleam  can  throw. 
Or,  in  frame  of  sinewy  chief, 
Woman,  bom  for  love  and  griefs- 
Thankless  toil,  or  haughty  sway 
Sped  life's  brief  and  fitful  day. 
Like  the  autumn's  sapless  bough 
Crumbling  o'er  thee,  thou  art  now. 

Rest !     A  young,  organic  world. 
Into  sudden  ruin  hurled, 
Casts  its  fragments  o'er  thy  tomb^ 
'Midst  the  woodland's  softened  gloom  I 
Died  those  frail  things  long  ago, 
But  the  soul  no  death  can  know^ 
Rest !    Thy  grave,  with  silent  preaching, 
Humble  hope  and  faith  is  teaching  I 


Rest !     Thy  warrior  tribes  so  bold 
Roam  no  more  their  forests  old. 


(391) 


392 


LUKLLA    J.    B.    CASE. 


[im>M 


And  the  thundering  fire-canoe 
Sweeps  their  phicid  waters  thniu^^h. 
Science  rules  where  Nature  huiiled ; 
Art  18  toiling  in  the  wild ; 
And  their  mouldering  cairns  alone 
Tell  the  tale  of  races  gone. 


Thus  o'er  Time's  mysterious  sea 
Ikying  moves  peri)etually ; 
Crowds  of  swifl,  advancing  waveA 
Roll  o*er  vanished  nations'  graves ; 
Hut  immortal  treasures  swefp 
Still  unharmed  tliat  solrmn  deep ; — 
Progress  holds  a  tireless  way — 
Mind  asserts  her  deathless  bway. 


ENERGY  IN  ADVKILSITY. 

Onward  !  Hath  earth's  ceaseless  cliangc ' 

Trampled  on  thy  heart  ? 
Faint  not,  lor  that  n'stlcss  range 

Soon  will  heal  the  smart. 
Trust  the  future  ;  time  will  prove 
Karth  imth  btronger,  truer  love. 

Bless  thy  Go<l — the  heart  is  not 

An  ahandoned  urn, 
Wliere  all  lonely  and  forgot, 

Dust  and  ashes  mourn ; 
IMcss  him  that  his  mercy  brings 
«loy  from  out  il.s  withered  things. 

Onwanl,  for  I  lie  truths  of  God — 

(hiwanl,  t«ir  the  ri;rlit  ! 
Finnlv  Irt  tlie  field  1m ■  tixxl 

In  jiff's  coming  fight ; 
IIt'aven'>  own  hand  will  lead  thee  on, 
(iuard  thee  till  thy  ta<k  is  done! 

Then  will  hrightt* r,  swrrtur  flowers 
IUu.>-«i(im  rniind  lliv  wav, 

m  m 

Than  e'er  sprung  in  lh»pcV  glad  l>owers. 
In  thine  rarlv  ihiv  ;  , 

Anil  tlif  roHiiii;  vi'ar>  -^hall  hrin;; 
Strength  and  healing  on  their  wing. 


DEATH  LEADING  AGE  TO  REPUTE. 

Lf.ad  him  gently — ^he  u  weaij, 
Spirit  of  the  pUurid  brow ! 

Life  is  long,  and  age  is  dreaiyv 
And  he  seeks  to  «liimber 


Lead  him  g**ntlj — be  is  weeping; 

For  the  friends  he  cumoC  see; 
Gently — for  he  shrinks  from  slcepng 

On  the  couch  be  asks  of  ibee ! 

Tliou,  with  mien  of  solemn  gMiifi^ 
With  the  tliought-illumiDed  cje, 

Pity  thou  the  mortal's  iradnrm 
Teach  lum  it  is  well  to  die. 


Time  has  vailed  bis  eje  witb 
On  thy  face  it  maj  nol  dweD, 

Or  its  >weet,  majestic  klndnem 
Would  each  moumfiil  doabt  &pd 


Passionless  thine  eveiy  feature. 
Moveless  is  thy  being^s  eafan, 

While  |KX>r  suffering  hnmaa 
Knows  but  few  brief  boon  of 


Yet  when  life's  long 

And  the  "rave  is  drawing 

How  it  >]i rinks  from  Ibal 
Where  there  comes  nor  bope,  aori 

Open  thou  the  visioned  portal. 

That  H'veals  the  life  sobCme^ 
That  within  t^  land  immortal 

Waits  the  weary  cbild  of 

Opf'n  thou  tho  land  of  beantj. 
Where  the  Ideal  is  no  draaa 

And  the  chiKl  of  patient  Dutf 
Walks  in  joy's  unclouded 


TlitMi,  with  hruw  that 

With  the  eye  that  maj  nol 
IN'int  him  to  In^avenV  coming 

Show  Inm  it  is  well  to  sleep ! 


FRANCES   DANA  GAGE. 


11  the  lady  writers  represented  in  this  volume,  none  can  show  a  more  thor- 
Westem  and  pioneer  origin  and  training,  than  JVIrs.  Grage.  Joseph  Barker 
ptain  Dana,  were  in  the  first  company  of  settlers  from  New  England,  who 
the  Alleghanies  in  the  winter  of  1787-8,  under  the  lead  of  Rufus  Putnam, 
ded  at  Marietta  on  the  seventh  of  April,  1788,  thus  becoming  the  founders  of 
Joseph  Barker  married  Elizabeth  Dana,  of  which  parentage  Frances  Dana 
was  bom,  in  1808.  The  first  settlers  of  Marietta  were,  in  strength  of  char- 
id  for  vigor  of  manly  virtues,  the  most  remarkable  band  of  pioneers  the  West 
r  seen.  Coming  from  the  fiower  of  such  a  stock,  and  reared  amid  all  the  stir- 
;idents  of  such  a  life  of  toil,  danger  and  heroism,  Miss  Barker  became  early 
roughly  imbued  with  the  romance  of  the  border.  Earnest,  impubive,  moody 
oantic,  she  grew  up  amid  the  magnificent  scenery  of  the  Muskingum,  a  child  of 
most  loyal  to  the  hills,  woods  and  waters,  in  whose  inspirations  she  found  her 
istence.  At  the  age  of  twenty  years.  Miss  Barker  was  married  to  James  L. 
f  McConnelsville,  where  she  settled  in  a  lovely  home  still  overlooking  the  Mus- 
,  at  which  place  she  continued  to  reside  for  twenty-five  years,  rearing  a  family 
stalwart  sons  and  two  daughters.  In  1853  the  family  removed  to  St.  Louis, 
which  city  has  since  been  their  home. 

Y  in  the  winter  of  1859,  in  company  with  a  relative,  Mrs.  Gage  visited  the  "West 
elands  and  closely  scanned  the  habits  of  the  people,  fram  her  own  peculiar  stand- 
nd  on  her  return  prepared  several  popular  lectures  on  Life  in  the  West  Lidies, 
vere  largely  patronized  in  northern  Ohio,  during  the  spring  of  1860,  placing 
urer  in  the  first  rank  of  social  female  orators,  and  establishing  her  reputation 
en  observer  of  the  anatomy  of  human  society. 

Gage  early  practiced  the  writing  of  verses  as  an  irrepressible  expression  of 

uliar  nature.     These  verses  were  for  some  time  kept  strictly  private,  and  first 

heir  way  into  the  local  newspapers   through  the  partial  theft  of  her  friends. 

he  year  1850,  the  ftocticiil   publications  of  Mrs.  Gage  began  to  attract  consid- 

ittention :  these  were  mostly  written  for  the  Ohio  CultivcUor^  published  at  Co- 

,  for  which  periodical  she  was  thenceforth  a  regular  contributor  for  some  years. 

n  the  years  1845  and  1855,  Mrs.   Gage's  muse  seems  to  have  culminated, 

1  her  taste  for  travel  and  public  lecturing  in  behalf  of  various  reforms,  she  has 

:»glected  the  bower  of  the  muses  for  the  platform  of  public  disquisition.     Her 

is  always  the  spontaneous  gushing  of  her  feeling  or  fancy.     The  rhythm  is 

tudied,  but  measured  only  by  the  ear.     Mrs.  Gage  has  never  concentrated  her 

of  versification  upon  the  construction  of  a  studied  poem,  as  a  representative 

l>est  talent,  but  thrown  off"  her  minstrelsy  like  the  chimes  of  Easter-bells, 

the  world  welcome  to  what  cost  her  nothing  and  must  be  said.     Mrs.  Gage  is 

(393) 


FRANr'KS   n.  UA«;r: 


rr 


..-.k-;*arr:i::   i;;ii   ri'i'ifrinutury,  nnd  vrrv  nianv  i»f  inr  mo^c   iKpin!»*i  »r 

i M.J^^'T-.     ili'F  pTtW't  iiitiiiiii-v  with  nature  uitd  h*'r   ---ar 

"'n!ii«»ii    :hin'j-.  ♦■n:ilil»'^   hor  to  dfpirt    }M-aiiiio«  and  exc^.-Urrt- 
•  -^     ■  in*   v  'iij-;!"".  whi'  ii  *tiirtk*  hv  ilu-ir  iMi'liiv  und  oLann    bv  lht.*ir  •irn:! 

•  ■  •  f 

.     _    :.•  r  iir:."r  Ti.  i.*-.  *-ni{ih:itiral)v.  :i  Woman  nt  i!i»-  I'tiipl*' ;  for  uliif-h  r 
•  vii-  -•."Utii  '.  *-  ;ii'ij>-l  !>v  tlu'  thi'miMiiii'ttT  nt'  {Mi|iular  aiiprHiiaiion.  milirr 
,.  ...v..r»T  '•■-:-  ■  :"  ii-:r:i.-t  i-ritiri-iii. — a  tribunal  tu  wiiifh.  t'rooi  llie  i<iin!.>- 
.!.:'.  ■'•.ui:u:ii.-L  AiA  :Le  hiiir{toniU-no«'  vi  rultivati'd  liaUi^.  »lu.*  u  noc  £i:ri« 


.l'-li'< 


T!!K  i^r'L'M'S  «»F  INDIVTKV. 

I  i.'ivE  :!i»*  l»an;riii;r  lianimer, 
T'lf  uhirriri;;  **t  tin*  jilan«\ 

!*!l.-  ■•i-i*iil!i;r  of"  (he  hii>v  *aw, 

l"'ii-  .Tt-akiiiir  ot"  ill*'  ••nine, 
rSf  vtM^'iiir  iif"  ifjt-  aii\  il. 

I'll   ^•■:i:ini:  i»t   llu*  «li"ill, 
L'<i>    ■  iaL^i  rill::  i>t  ilic  liirnin;^-latlio, 

I  It'  wirrliiii:  (it'  (Ih*  ntiil, 
f  I.     ..; .    '  .:  I't"  till*  -^liintilf, 

I  'm   ■  *  :I'.ni:  i»t'  iIh'  lu<iin, 

!  ':.      '11. '""1^  ot    lln'  tMipnt*, 

V.I    .1"  lau*?"  ii»niiiiuoii>  lKN)ni — 

»   ..  .T'^  uf  till"  tailnrV  >lifai>, 

•  '  %  i::;:  ut'  llir  awl, — 

I  ■..    ,. ...   .U  i«t'  l«ii^\  la^Mir, 
.-«•  .  I  ki\t'  tlifui  all. 

.  ,        }K-  liliiwuianV  wlii-tlo, 
. . I. '»■!'-  »li«  rrliil  Millar, 
..  *.  :  ^  ^iri-i-i-{irali'il  -fjoiit, 
V      I.      f'i'i  ^  Iiio  >tiM'l>  a!(Mi-j  ; 
.    .  ■    :'m-  ni:irki't-iii:iii, 
I  ,      liiin  1(1  llii'  town  ; 
..     -x'tn  liii-  rri-i-lo|i 

■.!.•!  truIi  t-oini'^  tiown  ; 

!  »•{■  il.rr-iii-rs 
.  i'\  il.i'  i*i|i«-!ifi|  ^rniin. 

!^r>  liinl  iiiirtli  aihl  *:\v 
,  '■  lijlif  «ni  iIm'  |ilain, 

:iii'  liiiiiA  !ii:iii. 

« 


Thi'!<e  sounds  of  :u*liTf-  idcIimut. 
I  love.  I  lo%'e  ihvm  all ; 

Fur  ilicy  tfll  mv  lun;riii<;  j^irit 

or  ihf  •  arn«'Mii«->!>  of  lifv. 
How  nnirli  ni*  all  if.«  ha|ipim*«« 

Conii*«  out  of  toil  and  .«trif**~- 
Not  that  toil  and  .-trift*  that  fuiu^ti. 

Ami  inumiun-th  all  tlit*  «a%.— 
Not  ilti-  (oil  and  strife  tliat  ;n^a:Mh 

Hi'ni'atit  a  tVRUit'«  «waT  : 
I>nt  tli«'  toil  ami  ^trifi*  tiisit  -prin^vih 

Fnim  a  fni*  and  willing  heart. 
A  .-trifi*  whii-h  r*-er  hrinp-ih 

To  tlif  >trivi*r  all  hi*  |iuft. 

( )li !  ilii'n*  is  a  ^knI  in  bbur. 

If  \\v  lalmr  Uit  arij^hu 
That  ;!ivf^  \itP*r  tu  lh«-  daj-limei 

And  a  >wi'i'(»'r  »h*i*p  at  ni^ht : 
A  ^(mnI  liial  lirin>rflh  plrarunr, 

Mvi-n  to  the  tuiliii};  liour^^ 
Fur  iluiy  fhrtT*  ihr  .-i|iirii 

A^  ilir  ilrw  n\ivf..  tlK'  fk(«cr< 

Oil  !  sav  not  that  .Ithovah 

]\iu\v  IIS  lalH»r  :u(  a  diiom. 
No.  it  i"  lii-  rirli«—f  m»»n"V. 

And  will  -.caltiT  half  liff*\  f;kx* 
'V\nu  ]«i  ii«  --(ill  hf*  diiin<r 

WliMtr'iT  wi»  Knd  lo  do-^ 
With  an  t-anir^t.  williu*;  *|Mril. 

And  a  "(run;;  harni  five  and  tnr. 


FRANCES   D.   GAGE. 


S95 


A  HOME  PICTURE. 

BHEB  had  finished  hb  hard  day's 

rk, 

be  sat  at  his  cottage  door ; 

d  wife,  Kate,  sat  by  his  side, 

:he  moonlight  danced  on  the  floor ; — 

onlight  danced  on  the  cottage  floor, 

t>eains  were  as  clear  and  bright 

n  he  and  Kate,  twelve  years  before, 

nd  love  in  the  mellow  lighL 

sher  had  never  a  pipe  of  clay, 

never  a  dram  drank  he  ; 

)ved  at  home  with  his  wife  to  stay, 

they  chatted  right  merrily  : 

lerrily  chatted  they  on,  the  while 

babe  slept  on  her  breast ; 

i  chubby  rogue,  with  rosy  smile, 

is  fathei'^s  knee  found  rest. 

d  her  how  fast  his  potatoes  grew, 

the  com  in  the  lower  field ; 

3  wheat  on  the  hill  was  grown  to 

id, 

promised  a  glorious  yield : — 
>us  yield  in  the  harvest  time, 
his  orchard  was  doing  fair ; 
ep  and  his  stock  were  in  the  prime, 
arm  all  in  good  repair. 

id  that  her  garden  looked  beautiful, 

fowls  and  her  calves  were  fat ; 

6  butter  that  Tommy  that  morning 

umed. 

Id  buy  him  a  Sunday  hat; 

'nny  for  pii'  a  new  shirt  had  made, 

'twas  done  too  by  the  rule ; 

eddy  the  garden  could  nicely  spade, 

Ann  was  ahead  at  school. 

wly  parsed  his  toil-worn  hand 
ugh  his  lo<'ks  of  grayish  brown — 
you,  Kate,  what  I  think,"  said  he, 
re  the  happiest  folks  in  town." 


'<I  know,"  said  Kate,  ^that  we  all  work 
hard, — 

Work  and  health  go  together,  I've  found; 
For  there's  Mrs.  Bell  does  not  work  at  all, 

And  she's  sick  the  whole  year  round. 

"  They're  worth  their  thousands,  so  people 
say. 

But  I  ne'er  saw  them  happy  yet ; 
'T would  not  be  me  that  would  take  their 
gold. 

And  live  in  a  constant  fret. 
My  humble  home  has  a  light  within, 

Mrs.  Bell's  gold  could  not  buy. 
Six  healthy  children,  a  merry  heart, 

And  a  husband's  love-lit  eye." 

I  fancied  a  tear  was  in  Ben's  eye, — 

The  moon  shone  brighter  and  clearer, 
I  could  not  tell  why  the  man  should  cry. 

But  he  hitched  up  to  Kate  still  nearer ; 
He  leaned  his  head  on  her  shoulder  there, 

And  Ufok  her  hand  in  his, — 
I  guess  (though  I  looked  at  the  moon  just 
then), 

That  he  left  on  her  lips  a  kiss. 


HOUSEKEEPER'S  SOULOQUT. 

I  WISH  I  had  a  dozen  pairs 
Of  hands,  this  very  minute  ; 

I'd  soon  put  all  these  things  to  rights — 
The  very  deuce  is  in  it 

Here's  a  big  washing  to  be  done, 

One  pair  of  hands  to  do  it, 
Sheets,  shirts   and  stockings,  coats  and 
pants. 

How  will  I  e'er  get  through  it  ? 

Dinner  to  get  for  six  or  more. 
No  loaf  lefl  o'er  from  Sunday ; 

And  baby  cross  as  he  can  live, — 
He's  always  so  on  Monday. 


:iU6 


FRANCES    D.   GAGE. 


[IHM 


And  thcn*'^  tliir  cn*um,  \w  getting  sour, 
And  must  ibrtliwitli  be  churning, 

And  here's  liuh,  wants  a  button  on — 
Which  way  i*hull  I  bu  turning? 

*T'm  time  the  meat  was  in  tht^  pot, 
Tlie  bread  was  worki.d  for  Uiking, 

The  cluthes  wen?  taken  from  the  boil — 
Oh  dear !  the  baby*s  waking ! 

Hush,  baby  dear !  there,  liush-sh-sh ! 

I  wish  he*d  sleep  a  little, 
Till  I  could  run  and  get  some  wood, 

To  hurry  up  that  kettle. 

Oh  dear !  oh  dear !  if  P —  comes  home, 
And  finds  thing>  in  this  pother, 

IIe*ll  just  begin  and  tell  me  all 
About  his  tidy  mother  1 

How  nice  her  kitchen  used  to  be. 

Her  dinner  always  resuly 
Exactly  when  the  noon  liell  rant; — 

Hush,  hush,  dear  little  Freddy. 

And  then  will  come  some  hasty  word, 
Kight  out  beibrc!  I*m  thinking, — 

Tlicy  say  that  hasty  wonls  from  wives 
St't  sober  men  to  drinking. 

Now  i^n't  that  a  gn-at  idcii, 

That  men  should  take  to  .-inning. 

Because  a  weary,  half-sick  wife, 
Can*t  always  smile  so  winning? 

AVlirii  I  was  young  I  uscil  to  cam 

My  liviii;:  without  tmuMc, 
Had  clotltrs  and  jtocket-moncy,  too. 

And  hours  of  hi  sure  double. 


LIFirs  LBS80N& 

Chasing  aAer  butterflieis  himtmg  A 

flowers, 
Listening  to  the  wild  birdi|  thraqgl  tl 

sunny  hours — 
Looking  up  the  hen's  nests  oa  tlw  fiigni 

mows. 
Tending  to  the  kinibkins,  driring  «p  d 

cows. 
Mixing  piny  and  labor  in  mjcliildiib  ^ 
Learned  I  life's  lint  k»>soiu— leuned  1 1 

be  free. 

Waving  on  the  tree-tops,  rcMBuiig  o'er  Ai 

hills; 
Wandering  through  the  meadovii  iiU^ 

in  the  rilLs ; 
Floating  on   the  rivers,    ridiiig   oVr  At 

plains 
Plodding  through  the  com  fields,  drafpi^ 

gidden  gniins, 
Mixing  playunil  labor,  with  a duUsk^ 
Lcanied  I  life's  first  lesaons^-learDtd  I> 

be  frt»c. 


Laughing  'moiig  the  greeo 

ripe  fniit  fell ; 
(aaihering  tiie  brown  nats  in  iht 

dell  ; 
Tripping  at  the  ppinning-wbed, 

and  fro; 

Dancing  at  tlie  paring-bee,  OQ  a 

'  Mixing  phiy  an<l  lalmr,  with  a  joathfid  ^a 

I  l^arnc<l  1  life's  best  lessoos-— leUBsd  I  > 

bir  fn'c. 


I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  fate,  I  Singing  oVr  my  milk-pail  wfaib  the  dw 

AVhrn  I,  a-lass!  was  courted —  |  wcii'  bright, 

Wife,    mother,    nurM>,    M'ainstn*-s    cook.  Toiling  in  the  dairy  with  a  spirit  pghU 
111 )UM- keeper,    cliamtter-niaiil,  hiundre-s,  r.»iti«;  mop  and  duster,  washboud, 
d:iirv-W(»nian,  and  serub^feneniUv,  tluin^.  brtMan, 


the  work  ot'  >ix. 

For  (he  sake  of  iH'ing  sup{N»rte<l ! 


Scir-Mirs.  thread  and  needle, as 
to  I'oine : 


1840-^.] 


FRANCES    D.   GAGE. 


397 


Mixing  play  and  labor,  ever  cheerfullj  ; 
Learned  I  life's  best  lessons — learned  I  to 
be  free. 

Conning  these  best  lessons,  poring  over 

books, 
Dreaming  of  the  future,  in  the  quiet  nooks. 
Gleaning,  ever  gleaning,  as  the  dajs  went 

by, 

Thinking,  never  shrinking,  not  afraid  to  try ; 
Mixing  play  and  labor,  ever  joyously, 
Learned  I  life's  great  lessons — learned  I 
to  be  fr'ee. 


MY  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

I  USED  to  think,  when  I,  a  child, 

Played  with  the  pebbles  on  the  shore 
Of  the  clear  river  rippling  wild, 

That  rolled  before  my  father's  door, 
How  long,  how  very  long  'twould  be. 

Ere  I  could  live  out  fifty  years ; 
To  think  of  it  oft  checked  my  glee, 

And  filled  my  childish  heart  with  fears. 

I  looked  at  grandma,  as  she  sat, 

Her  forehead  decked  with  silvery  rime, 
And  thought,  ''When  I'm  as  old  as  that. 

Must  I  dam  stockings  all  the  time  ? 
Must  I  sit  in  an  arm-chair  so, 

A  white  frilled  cap  around  my  face. 
With  dull  drab  strings,  and  ne'er  a  bow, 

And  keep  things  always  in  their  place?" 

The  lines  of  care,  the  sigh  of  pain, 
The  "hush!"  her  lips  so  oft  let  fall, 

Made  me  wish,  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
I  never  might  grow  old  at  all. 

Yet  she  was  ever  cheerful,  and 

Would    oft  times    join    our    sport    and 
mirth; 
And  many  a  play  by  her  was  planned. 

Around  the  winter  evening  hearth. 


But  then  she  played  not  by  the  brook. 

She  did  not  gather  pretty  flowers, 
She  did  not  sing  with  merry  look, 

Nor  make  a  spring-time  of  the  hours. 
So,  when  she  said,  one  sunny  mom, 

"You  will  be  old,  like  me,  some  day," 
I  wept  like  one  of  hope  forlorn. 

And  threw  my  playthings  all  away. 

Be  old !  like  grandma,  and  not  roam 

The  glen  in  spring,  for  violets  blue, 
Or  bring  the  bright  May  blossoms  home, 

Or  pick  the  strawberries  'mong  the  dew  ! 
Be  old  !  and,  in  the  sunmier  time. 

Take  weary  naps  in  midday  hours, 
And  fail  the  pippin-trees  to  climb. 

And  shake  the  ripening  fruit  in  showers ! 

Be  old !  and  have  no  nutting-bees 
Upon  the  hill-side,  rustling  brown, 

Nor  hang  upon  the  vine-clad  trees. 

And  shout  the  rich  grape  clusters  down. 

Be  old !  and  sit  round  wint'ry  fires ; 

Be  ^(ty  ! — have  no  sliding  spree. 
And  hush  away  all  wild  desires! — 

I  thought  'twere  better  not  to  be. 

But  two  score  years  have  glided  by. 

With  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold. 
With  sunny  hours  and  clouded  sky. 

Till  now  I'm  fifty — now  Tm  old ! 
The  sun-burnt  locks  are  silvery  now. 

That  used  to  dangle  in  the  wind ; 
And  eyes  are  dim,  and  feet  move  slow. 

That  left  my  playmates  all  behind. 

Spectacles  lie  upon  my  nose, 

But  no  white  frill  looks  prim  and  cold ; 
My  gray  hair  curls ;  I  wear  pink  bows — 

I  do  not  feel  so  very  old. 

I  play  among  the  pebbles — I 

Would  love,  on  that  familiar  shore. 

Where  once  I  watched  the  swallows  fly 
The  dancing,  rippling  waters  o'er ; 


H'UANi'KS    D.   CAGE 


ro  liki-  Ki  fliinb  tliu  niii>li-irff, 

Wiii-n-  fHHi;  till-  *[»<•}■  *vi>-vung  grew  ; 

Miiki-  j!ni|M-vin(r  :;«iiif-.  iind  luivt  ii  glw;  j 
Kul  I  iim  litij- — ■cwoiil.lirt  du. 

r<i  like  to  (TO  H  iiiiKiii;!  now, 

Ami  ;!:itluT  violi-t;!  ill  till*  glen  ; 
Atk)  wi-i'utlu!  tliL-  wild  Ifowvre   ruund  niv 

11I-..W, 

As  will  us  e'er  J  did  iit  ton. 

I'd  liki-  a  >liiii'  wiKtn  tlic  (wiid — 

T<i  »Hh-li  tlw  idil  mill  ^lr»}:;;lin^  tlicre 

In  irr  iliidns  «hil.-  hII  Ih-v.xkI 

Vt'w  laiv  liruad  ndmtr,  cciM  and  glnrv. 

I'd  liki-  to  si'e  llif  noi*)-  si-ImkiI. 

I.i-t  nut  H-n<H>niti^,  a,-'  (if  old — 
l'Iny-Losiniyjrli>vi-."jiiid"Miii.hlnTuk-.- 

Jlv  luiiTt  throbs  (jiiit-k — it  is  nui  liJiL 

I'm  fiiiy — hm  I  Hin  not  Mid — 
I  M'c  no  ;rl(Hiin  in  ri[H-tii»<;  rcan ; 

Mv  Ihi|h-s  nn*  liri;;iii.  my  >j.irit  ;.'1iid — 
Hon  viiin  wen-  all  my  <-IliIdi^ll  ti-rnv! 

My  rtiil<li>.h  s]H.rts  I  lov.d  tli.-m  lli<-n; 

1  Uivr  III  lliiiik  iliim  <iv<-r  r^iill— 
Til  shut  iny  cyis  awl  dri'siin  ujniin 

or  7.ilv<Ty  Kin-mn.  nml  w<Hiill:iMd  liilL 
Itut  lit'-  liiiM  [ih-u-iin-H  Imlii'i-  >till 

'riiiiii  <-liildli<i.Hl'K  [ikiy,  Willi  nil  its  zest. 
TiKLt.  :is  ».■  Joiinny  .iown  lie-  liill, 

M:.k.s  -icli  Mi.-.vr.iiii;r  y.-:ir  ll»-  Um. 

'I'li>T> 'ri'  ^I»lw:l^t  m-n  I.i-m.Ii-  my  li<-:irlli, 
Ari.l  -Ik V  hi-M>"  k,i-liiii-' fr.-.-. 

Tl.ul  lia.]  0..I  Wfd  .ni  il.i.  -.K-i  .-iirlli, 
l'..  i.iu'  ini.l  kilu.r.  l,ii(  liir  iru-; 

A.i.i  -I,;.)!  [  (.ill.-  i:.r  riiiMli— 1  j..y.-. 

,            I-...    u.,<Mll:il.d  »;ilk-.  :.h'l  t  i<.l.'t^  l.li..-, 
I     Ul..;.-r..,md m.-m  ;:;rl.  oii.l   l^.y. 


The  puiliH  I'rr  iiml  trere  ^omumn  ro 
And  rlinrp  and  pit-rvin;;  In  hj  ftM: 

Yet  llii-ri'  were  iL(i>ii-<l  walkn  gdoffc 
To  niiiku  it  all  tvirta  uduoiIi  and  >>( 

FritrndM   tlut  1    kived   have  faimi  f. 
»i|£lil 
Il(rl'»n-  me,  to  ihc  Fpirit  hoaK; 
Itiil  i»  l)u-  diiy  lliHl  knoK»  no  ni^ 


I  km 


f  III.- 


»!« 


»L>[  I  ii-<<i  to  dor 


!I..^..  ii.».r.i.ii:..l   !.!>  -|.ii.l^li..«-, 
(li-iii.i.lv.ni,'  fl,.H.'r.,r  lili-  \.—  tiiir 
'l'li;iii  ill  till'  •|irili;.'-liili<'.  Inii^  nffi. 


IIoiHv  tlwt  l\  >■  1  ii  n  w  :.  uo.  wHc  ni 
But  I  have  livt-d  to  feci  Had  kao*, 

Tlial.  wi-ir  titv  to  livu  oVr  agaia, 
Twi-rv  bviiLT  tliat  it  »bauld  be  m. 

At  (-very  winding  of  (he  vmy, 
I'vi'  sought  tur  love,  and  hn  k» 
irivcn ; 

For  lovii  i-uti  cheer  ihe  darknt  4kj, 
And  miiku  the  jMwrett  hone  a  kaita 

Uli !  ye,  wfio're  |iaDMn(;  down,  like  mt, 
I      LilV's  Huiumu  »Hk-.  U  brave  Md  «m 
.  And  leiu-h  ttiu  Iif|wr  al  jour  kan, 
I      Thul  lil'ty  yi-an  u  not  ao  long 
'Thul  il'  thi-y  would  be  ever  jrooa^ 
1     And  tree  f'rum  dolurou*  {«ia  mi  Mt 
Till'  I  ill' -I  mill  t'lu^I  'k*  t^viT  Mmng 
I      Vitli  love  ul'  dutj,  evcrj  wbob 

A-"  tkilins,  in  fun-ifni  landa, 

llroki'ii  iind  ^baiierad  «'cr  aad  t'K 
:  Wliiii  nun.].  .1,  aiid  iu  skilt&il  bairf^ 

Miiki-  .-wn-tiT  rau*ic  than  bdon^ 
So,  oil  tin'  lirurl.  by  i>amw  Idn, 

liivii  Will  a  lulViiT,  dearcrMa^ 
Tliiin  ttuii  whii'h  grtft^  a»  at  BMib 

Wlini  it  Hib.  iK>w.und  bniTr,aad«« 

l\itl.>  v.  I  iliuiik  Iliiv  llir  Ibem  all. 

Til'-  <'  lit';\  tfiiis  wliii-h  now  am  pM 
( 1). :  -111.!.'  liii'.  •.tiiinl  m>-.  tiU  the  U 

I  )r  .1  iiiii  mt  liK-ni  kIihII  hide  ■  iK 
1.-1  .U.  l..v.-:.i>.11ut»)Ma»a«i 

l,i\.-  'III.  iii'i-  t-'i-r  grow  Jiaid aai eiU: 
'  lli'tid  mi-,  and  Itn-ak  me  to  tbj  ■31 

lliit  miiy  my  spirit  ne'er  gtov^lL 


JANE  MARIA  MEAD. 


Iaria  Mead,  a  native  of  Paris,  Maine,  was  bom  on  the  twenty-second  day 
ber,  1811.  Her  father  was  a  physician.  When  Jane  was  a  little  girl  he 
to  the  West  Since  the  year  1834  her  home  has  been  in  Ohio.  In  1855 
married,  at  Maumee  City,  to  Whitman  Mead,  who  was  a  prominent  lawyer 
Ti  Ohio  for  ten  or  twelve  years,  but  who  has,  for  the  most  part,  exchanged 
e  and  the  subtleties  of  the  law  for  the  more  congenial  pursuit,  fanning. 
3  near  the  town  of  Medina. 

ead  has  been,  since  1850,  an  occasional  writer  for  the  LouisviUe  Journal  and 
York  Tribune^  and  was  one  of  the  regular  contributors  of  the  Genius  of  the 
lished  in  Cincinnati  from  1853  to  1856.  Her  writings  are  marked  by  ele- 
thought  and  purity  of  style,  jiud  her  poetry  partakes  largely  of  a  sober  and 
I  feeling  which  indicates  her  Puritan  ancestry.  The  LouismUe  Journal  said 
jms — "  they  are  pure  diamonds  polished  with  the  most  skillful  art." 


NATIONAL  ODE. 

k !  lift  thy  starry  eyes, 

;ep  o'er  ruined  hopes  no  more ; 

till  shines  in  yonder  skies, 

I    lightnings  IcJip  and   thunders 

1  thy  garments  shake  the  dust, 
looth  thy  brow,  and  smile  at  care: 
of  Heaven !  *tis  tliine  to  trust, 
ver  breathe  the  word,  despair. 
ss  sires — uncheered,  unshod — 
ire,  and  flood,  and  tenip(\st  trod, 
uere<l,  "in  the  name  of  God." 

!  the  very  stairs  have  stoo{)ed 
t  the  hero  on  his  wav ; 
var  and  peace,  in  glory  grouped, 
ned,   their    beams   of    splendor 


They  lead  the  legions  of  the  free ; 

They  watch  above  the  soldier's  bier ; 
They  guard  our  rights  on  land  and  sea — 

In  doubt,  in  darkness,  doubly  dear. 
Through    years    of   peace — ^'neath    war- 
clouds  dun — 
Till  deatl),  will  every  father's  son 
Defend  the  flag  our  fathers  won. 

Can  we  forget  the  men  that  trode 

The  ranks  of  death  with  iron  will  ? 
Can  we  forget  the  blood  that  flowed 

At  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill  ? 
No !     By  the  memory  of  the  Brave 

Who  sleep  in  glor}'*s  hallowed  bed — 
By  every  sainted  mound  and  wave, 

Each  drop  of  blood,  for  Freedom  shed. 
Shall  prove  a  seed  will  rise  again — 
A  harvest  vast  of  mighty  men, 
Invincible  with  sword  and  pen. 


(399) 


'      400 


JANK    M.    MKA1>. 


[I<l«> 


Fixiin  si*:i  to  wji,  fnnn  polt*  to  l>«»le, 
Tlt<*  striix^s  must  wave,  tljc  stars  must 
hum, 
W'hilr  mountains  risi*  or  rivers  roll. 


The  dam  the  lithe  &ihes  o'erieaprd  in  O:; 

phiy  ? 
The  roeks  sliooting  up  througli  a  tom;«^ 

of  spray? 


To  them    tlie   world's   0]>presseil   shall. The  sacnii  o1«l  liomest(*ad,  all  fhoni  of  a 
turn,  I  pride. 

To  them  tlie  oppn's<or  look  with  awe.  When;  love<1  ones  werp  bom  and  h»rnirj 

And  It'arn  a  tynuitV  arm  is  ehiy,  ones  dieil? 

A  lynuit's  M!epter  hut  a  stniw ;  The  luiy-mow,  the  fsarden,  tlic  orrinrllili 

And    till    the    n*ijrn   of    Wrong   pives,  w(»H, 

way,  I  Wlios(*  (tx>l-4l ripping  waten  chimrd  mAh 

Al)0ve  our  fath«»r's  martyn»<l  dust,  j  tiiey  fell? 

We  swear:   Our   swords   shall    right  the 

Ju>t,  What  lipht  plds  the  wave  where  belDRfd 

Or  ever  in  their  scabhards  rust !  the  firit  honk. 

To  eatf'li  thf  hri^rht  minnows  dial  glMod 

through  the  brook! 
His  time-s<ibered  puUe«  wiih  boyhood » 

thrill, 
AVhere  >hot  his  fleet  sled  down  the 

eovi'n'd  hill: 
When',  pausing  at  mom,  on  his 

to  seh(N>l, 
He  pli«*d  his  new  skutes  on  the  i 

Be  the  elimate   sen»ne,  or  all    fri;rid    the  1*^^*  • 

I  Or  w:i4hM]  the  driAs  that  were  piled  briki 

spot, »^  • 

•Mid  Arijo*s  green  vales  or  tlu;  desert*s  hot  **  """ 

,  ;  To  print,  on  the  snow-banks,  his 

santt —  I        ■  ,  "' 

Tin-  >wrftr.-t  of  elimi's — is  our  dear  Na-t  torm. 

tive  Land.  I-,,  .  .  _ 

,.,,       .  ,        I      •  *t        «i'0.  m«m  rv- pamts  rapturefl,  thai 

I hnu;:h  n«-vrr  so  ni;r;?»*d,  and  wintry,  and-  .         :    '  r        ^ 


OUR  NATIVK  LAND.* 
TiiK  home  of  our  hearts — in  a  palaec  or 

{M)t, 


wild. 
Wli(i  lovr-s  not  thi*  s(hI  that  he  IovimI  when 

a  ('hil<l  ? 
Wh(»  )n\r^  not  thf  w«NNi  when*  in  l>oyho(Nl 

h»*  >tniy<'ii — 
Tlir  i:n'«  n  \vh<'n*  In*  >port«'d,  tin*  ;rslme^  thai 

\tv  jilayt'd? — 


in  vain 
AVould  hartrr  the  wealth  of  a 

gain. 
And   <'l4»ihes.  with  a  halo  of 

tnitli, 
Th<'  trii'nd^i  of  hi^  boyhood,  the 

his  v«Mith : 

m 

Thou^li   iitr  may  have  channt  on  a  fa: 


fon'i;rn  .-Imipp. 
Tlif    sin-im    thsit    ni<lM-il  down   fn»m   it>  |i,.  ^ij,|,„  ,m  |„.  luik?*:  **  ShaD  I 

liniMf  in  the  hill?  '  im  nion*?" 

TIj'-    rv.i-    tli:it    rolli-l  hy  tin-    elatt.'rin;r  An  alini. 'mid  «i*enes  the  DMMC  btelyti 


iiiilir 


*  Iii-i'tiU  I  f<  »  Im-iil  •iurli)|{  ill*  iili««'iirr  In  Runipe. 


^rr.ind. 
TIk'  hfart  ha«  no  home  bot  ila 

tivt*  Lan<l. 


SULLIVAN   DWIGHT  HARRIS. 


TAN  D.  Harris  is  a  native  of  Vermont,  born  at  Middlebury  in  1812.  Living 
irm  he  earlj  cherished  a  love  of  rui'al  seclusion,  and  while  onlv  a  lad  iras  ao- 
3  a  contributor  of  verses  for  the  village  newspapers.  He  was  married  at 
ears  of  age,  and  removed  to  Ohio  in  1836,  where  he  was  variously  occupied  as 
»ainter  and  teacher,  in  the  counties  of  Ashtabula  and  Trumbull,  until  1851, 
was  engaged  as  associate  editor  of  the  Ohio  Cultivator,  of  which  publication 
le  proprietor  in  1855,  and  has  since  devoted  himself  entirely  to  the  duties  of 
».  With  Mr.  Harris,  poetry  was  an  early  and  cherished  passion,  but  the 
tf  verse  was  only  a  casual  amusement,  whidi  he  reckons  among  his  juvenile 
tons,  and  has  abandoned  for  the  more  pressing  duties  of  practical  literature, 
»e  indulged  in  at  the  solicitation  of  personal  friends  whom  he  is  too  good-na- 
refuse.  For  this  cause  most  of  his  riper  productions,  in  this  line,  are  too 
•ersonal  and  occasional  for  general  publication. 


HE  HEART'S  CHALLENGE. 

Thou  dost  not  love  me ! 
3  an  adder's  fold  about  my  heart, 
warm  pulsations,  as  it  beats 
;ly  marches  of  my  hermit  soul ! 
5  a  coil  of  very  misery 
lers    down    the   scarcely   issuing 
Uh, 

t   would    syllable   that   treasured 
le. 

I  may  not  chide  thee, 
eagle  spirit  hath  a  loftier  aim, 
»  be  fettered  with   the   loves  of 
:h— 
res,  that  cannot  recompense  the 

Y  treasures  of  a  heart  like  thine. 

5t  chide  thee,  for  thy  minstrelsy 

larmed  a  listening  nation's  ear: 

why 
(401) 

26 


Shouldst  heed  the  praise  of  one  poor  lip 

like  mine  ? 
As  soon  mightst  cull  the  mallow  at  thy  foot, 
While  regal    rose-trees   proffer  peerless 

blooms. 

But  say,  proud  Empress! 
Canst  thou  e'er  forget   what  time  thine 

other  self — 
Thy  woman-soul,  didst  thrill  in  heart  com- 
munings. 
Such   as   did   savor  less  of   earth    than 

heaven  ? 
I  know  thou  wilt  not  forget  the  hoara. 
Wherein,    with     low-voiced    breath,    we 

ranged  at  will. 
Amid  the  mazes  of  a  world  unseen. 
And  felt  the  Sittings  of  the  angels'  wings, 
As  plucking  from  our  lips  the  embryo 

thoughts, 
They  bore  them  off  like  dewy  olive-leaves, 
To  gamer  with  the  fruits  of  Hope  and 
Peace. 


Sl'LLIVAN    I).    HAKHIS 


IW 


Thou  J<Mt  not  luvc  me !   |  Wlw^p  niurd/  mx  fell,  never  gndgini 
Thou;;)!  my  tijiiril-lifti   hulli  bovcrcd  u'cri         rust, 

■lice.  To  rtnr  up  mth  m  Slate,  h  tbe  pi 

Aiiil  lik<.-  n  j^mnliiin  aiigi'l,  warcl  nway  the  nation ; 

I1ii-  lnHi|i»of  ri'ili-ycd  di'muns  frum  thy  Thin  join  ul)  y our  voieea  in  graiffa 

giiith,  I  claim. 

And  watching  o'ur  thy  pillow,  caught  tin-  Tin  the  triumph  of  tml  in  Jelwnh'f 

fmile 
Tluit   jilflypil   upon   thy  Blumberous  lip^ 

what  time 
Thy  Konring   epiril   bathed   in   nipturoun 

drc^aniA. 
Thou  dni-'Bt  not  love  me!  for  a  migtity 

Bp«-Il 
Ilnlh  chmincd  the  fountain  of  thy  inner  life 
And  mode  ihcc  cowurd  to  the  high  re- 


Bolve- 
During  to  be  thyself. 


A  SONG  FOR  OHIO. 


Our  s 


:  dangfatcn  lop 


The  Mi;!ht  u  the  Right.  mmI  tbe  Fa 
is  King. 


And  here  w«  are  gathered,  ftm  ftm 

To  iK'huid  and  rejoice  in  each  wi 
progrei>:>ion. 
So  let  ilw  world  wag,  in   hi  ^  arf 

We  are  proud  of  a  hand  in  lUi  ■ 
prvfcMion, 
^Mierc  the  Kwcat  of  oar  but  abaD  tm 

mir  hrend. 
And  the  migcls  of  peace  ihaO  pflbai 
h*ad. 
Vi'v  are  joined  in  a  band  no  tjmH 


Ilurrnh  for  tbe    Faimer,  fcmv  i 


SONG  OF  THE  HARTBIB& 


WiiKX  th(^  God  of  our  futhcnt  looked  o 
thin  land. 
To  chooiM;  out  a  country  mo^t  worthr 
jio:(i<csiiing, 
WlMre  the  riven*  nnd  plains  ever  beaute- 
ous and  f!mnd, 
AIi;:lit  so  <1ln^Lultly  ^inilc  on  tlic  light 
uf  his  blessiii<;. 
Fr<ini    Krie'i   broud   wavcn   to   the  river  Wk  ;;ather  them   in- 

I..I..W,  l.-i.V.-«, 

The    S<'n>«>*!>    sparkle   and  the  Mu.-king-       With  our  M-ythc<  and  lakn  t»di?< 
uiu'ri  lliiw,  Ainl  tlic  mow  grow*  tn^  ai  Ac  fii^ 

And  Ihf  ^Tix-'ful  yiiamh  together  n-j  h.-avcs 

jiiii-e.  Hi.  Iii[<  in  ihe  i^w.-ltiTing  Inqr. 

And  hW*  the  AIM'iiiher  with  mIvit- 0  h.i:  uIk-UI!  tin- the  tnoweri MTfc 
l..i..d  v.,i.v.  lliiil.  :l  riii;:  a.  of  de-liny. 

Swi'i-jiin;;  the  i-orth  of  iu  ' 
■■l«:i-  li.r.-  the  g-H^l  aii-.l  incainiK-d  «iil.       ^\,  j,  ..i„jj^  [„  wnidiful  glee. 
hi.  host  ! 

To  i-ln-.r  the  brave  womlmon,  'mid  hi>.  We  ;;uitier  them 
toil  luid  privation,  I      Uf  the  yellow 


.0.] 


SULLIVAN    D.    HARRIS. 


403 


lie  flash  of  our  sickles'  light  illumes 
r  march  o*er  the  vanquished  plain. 
we  come  with  the  steed-di-awn  car — 
Q  cunning  of  modern  laws, 
he  acres  stoop  to  its  clanging  jar, 
it  reeks  its  hungry  jftws. 

ather  them  in — the  mellow  fruits 
)m  the  shrub,  and  vine,  and  tree, 
their  russet,  and  golden,  and  purple 
uite, 

garnish  our  treasury ; 
^ach  hath  a  juicy  treasure  stored 
aneath  its  tinted  rind, 
eer  our  guests  at  the  social  board 
len  we  leave  our  cares  behind. 

ather  them  in — this  goodly  store, 

t  not  with  the  miser's  gust, 

be  Great  All-Father  we  adore 

th  but  given  it  in  trust. 

)ur  work  of  death,  is  but  for  life, 

the  wint'ry  days  to  come, — 

a  blessing  upon  the  Reaper's  strife, 

d  a  shout  at  his  Harvest  Home. 


TO  MY  VALENTINE. 

Mollie  mine,  'tis  a  long  time  ago, 
under  the  hawthorn  I  ventured  to 

voo; 

?tars  winked  approvingly  far  in  the 

;ky, 

ihat  were  all  these  to  the  heaven  in 

hine  eye? 

)land  breeze  of  Spring  and  the  white 

lowers  above, 
meeting  in  dalliance,  to  wanton  in 

ove: 

ft     pure    as    that     blossom     which 

reighted  the  breeze, 

rarm    as    the    zephyr    that    sighed 

hrough  the  trees. 


Were  the  hearts  which  communed  in 
Love's  opening  hour, 

And  confessed  to  the  might  of  its  master- 
ing power. 

How  few  were  our  years!  with  Hope's 
tintings  how  bright  1 

'Twas  a  day-dream  of  childhood — a  gosh 
of  delight ! 

And  Passion's  young  wave  flowing  peace- 
fully on, 

But  blended  our  hopes  and  our  homes  into 
one; 

And  thou  hast  been  still,  from  that  day  of 
"  lang-syne," 

Through  storm  and  fair  weather,  my  own 
Valentine. 


LOVE'S  TYRANNY. 

Ah  !  me.     A  witching  shape  hath  bound 
This  hapless  soul  with  silken  cords, 

Which  may  not  loose,  'till  I  have  found 
A  sonnet  of  undying  words. 

O I  touch  my  pen  with  living  fire, 
And,  passive  to  her  slightest  nod, 

The  words  shall  glow— despite  His  ire- 
Emblazoned  on  the  throne  of  God ! 

And  whilst  the  universe  may  read 
The  challenged  sonnet  evermore, 

She  may  accept  the  damning  deed, 
And  thus  undo  my  prison-door. 

Presumptuous?  ha!  am  I  a  slave 

To  sit  me  quiet  everwhile? 
There's  not  a  hell  I  would  not  brave, 

To  compass  such  a  woman's  smile ! 

And  when  her  smile  my  deed  had  won, 
And  I  was  free  to  go  at  will. 

Her  fetters  would  again  put  on 
And  bind  my  soul  her  captive  stilL 


AMANDA  L.  RUTER  DUFOUR. 


Among  the  early  pioneer  preacliera  of  the  TtTritory  &t  IndiaiM,  fe 
ef)tcein(*(],  or  will  Im;  lon^r  remenibered,  than  Calvin  W.  Ruler.  Bom  in  T< 
and  lci\,  in  early  rhililhcxMl,  in  humble  circumstance«,  to  the  mre  of 
wlio  wan  a  native  of  Kn<rland  and  a  womjin  of  unconquerable  en«i|^,  ihtt  7<mf  h 
M>u<rht,  in  self-cultiin*,  tlie  advantafres  of  education  whM  fort  one  liad  dfh4  Ui 
Tie  used  to  ^ther  brushwood  in  the  Vermont  mountains,  and  arrange  it  w  titAe^fc 
the  liirht  of  which  he  was  wont  to  8tudy  thmuf^hout  the  long  winlpr  eveniiigiL 

At  the  af^;  of  twenty-four  he  emi;irrated  to  the  then  frontier  seftlmiMti  of  ihp  Wii 
and  there  entered  u{K)n  the  laliorious  life,  full  of  hanlt«hipfl  and  priratmia,  of  a  II 
crant  uiinist<*r  uf  the  M<-th<Mlii«t  p]pisco|)al  Church.  Trained  in  a  stern  wAmA  ■ 
inheritin«]r  ull  the  vi;jor  and  ])erseverance  of  hiA  mother,  he  was  one  of 
who,  without  a  taint  of  intoh^ran(*e,  have  that  a)M)Ut  th(.>m  out  of  which 
made.  Kuniest  in  his  own  opinions,  he  yet  K|)oke  with  charity  of  all 
was  in  the  habit  of  invitiii;i;  pn>a4*hers  of  other  denominatioiM  to  fthare  the 
of  his  house,  never  chumin;r  Metli<Mlism  ad  the  exclusive  road  to  heaven. 

In  1H21  he  married  Harriet,  dauf^hter  of  a  once  wealthy  Virginian,  MiehariHHi 
o^  Cicnnan  ori<riM,  who,  from  consrientiou.')  motives,  liaii  manumitted  all  hii  ahvaa 
enii<;rated  to  Indiana.  Harbiira,  one  of  these  slaves,  tlirew  her  free  papen  iMiA 
tire,  foHuwcd  the  tbrtunes  of  Ikt  master,  and  died  in  the  family.  In  the 
Mr.  l^uter  obtained  a  wife  of  the  most  benevolent  cliaracter,  much  of 
ttlHMit  in  deedri  of  charity. 

To  them  was  bom,  in  Jcfrersonville,  Indiana,  and  in  the  year  1822, 
isa,  the  subjeirt  of  the  pn'M^nt  bio>;raphical  notiiv.  The  year^  of  her 
hood  were  spent  on  a  farm  near  Lexin^^on,  Iiidianiu  Adjacent  to  the 
l>eautiful  woodland  (NL^tiin',  in  which  had  Ix^en  nidi'ly  constructed  a  mitie  bower; 
tlitrn*  the  solitary  child  ust>«l  to  sit  alone  fur  hours,  while  rhymes  came  to  kr 
U'tore  she  could  resid.  Whfii  Aw  wn^  ei>;ht  y<*ars  of  a;n\  her  father  reaMwel  ti  Sa 
Albany,  where  her  youth  was  pa-vsi'd.  Thrn*  the  picturesque  **  Knobt*  wtR  ll 
piay-<rn)und,  and  the  ^www  of  h<*r  earliest  inspirations. 

CuiiHicting  rinrumstancrs  con^pinul  materially  to  influence  her  character,  (k  A 
iin«!  hand  her  lather,  a  man  of  nn-lancholy  trnitMsniment  and  studious 
i.4iM)lute  quiet  in  \i\ss  holl^ehoill;  and  this  gavf  the  child  many  btiuni  for 
lion  and  for  the  Htuily  of  lMM>k>.  She  begtui  to  commit  her  own  thirmhti 
:iiid  th(;se  usually  assumed  a  pi)etical  form.  She  possi-ssiHl  hemelf  of 
l^atin  works  from  her  fatlier*s  libniry,  and  soii;;hl  to  tench  hcnelf 
liut  hiT  motherV  health  failin«;,  so  that  many  of  the  flome^tic  duties  devolved  M  hi 
I  !til(l.  Aw  was  fain  to  l(K*k  a  way  fnim  the  youn^  studt-nt  not  only 
iniitt*i-ial>,  lest  the  household  cares  should  he  n»»pleeted. 

(404) 


1810-^0.]  AMANDA    L.    R.    DUFOUR.  406 


After  a  time  the  daughter  was  sent  to  such  a  school  &s  ^  those  early  days,  was  to 
be  found ;  and  there  the  avidity  with  which  she  applied  her  mind  to  study  injured  her 
health.  She  persevered,  however,  until  she  had  acquired  all  that  her  teachers  could 
oommunicate,  and  had  herself  mastered  the  usual  qualifications  of  a  teacher.  Of 
tliese,  as  her  Other's  flock  was  poor  and  his  means  limited,  she  subsequently  availed 
herself,  keeping  school  at  Rising  Sun,  in  order  to  aid  her  parents  and  to  procure,  for 
herself,  the  means  of  purchasing  the  books  she  craved. 

Her  childhood  and  youth  might  truly  be  said  to  have  been  spent  in  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge  under  difficulties.  Yet,  withal,  her  early  years  were  happy  ones — happy 
wheneyer  she  could  stray  off  to  commune  with  that  nature,  of  which  the  beauties  pos- 
sessed, for  her  warm,  poetic  temperament,  ever  an  invigorating  freshness  and  a  myste- 
xious  charm :  happy,  too,  in  the  cheerful  glow  which  a  loving  mother's  affection  shed 
over  a  quiet  home.    To  this  the  daughter,  in  afler-years,  paid  a  grateful  tribute. 

Amanda  Ruter  had  an  early  and  earnest  desire  to  travel ;  to  witness,  in  other  lands, 
the  scenes  and  wonders  of  which  she  had  read ;  and  there  to  gather  that  varied 
knowledge  and  experience  which  at  home,  except  through  the  imperfect  medium  of 
report,  is  beyond  our  reach.  But  her  wishes  were  not  destined  to  be  gratified.  She 
grew  up  to  adult  age  witliout  having  once  lef^  her  native  State ;  and  there,  at  the  age 
of  twenty,  was  united  in  marriage  to  Oliver  Dufour,  then  of  New  Albany.  Her  hus- 
band, like  herself,  was  a  native  of  Indiana — son  of  John  Francis  Dufour,  from  Mon- 
tTBftox,  near  Vevay,  in  Switzerland.  This  gentleman  came  to  the  West  in  1801, 
when  it  was  all  a  wilderness.  In  1809  he  settled  on  the  spot  where  Vevay  (Indiana) 
now  stands,  then  a  dense,  unbroken  forest;  and  he  laid  out  the  town  in  1813,  calling 
it  after  his  beautiful  native  place,  on  the  Leman  Lake.  The  first  cabin  erected  by 
him  may  still  be  seen  on  Main  Cross  street  He  was  the  first  settler  west  of  the 
mountains  who  ever  made  wine.  He  sent  a  sample  of  the  first  vintage  to  Thomas 
Jefferson,  then  President  It  so  happened  that  about  the  same  time  some  one  had 
sent  to  the  President  a  bottle  of  water  from  the  Mississippi.  The  water  and  wine, 
both  from  the  Western  wilderness,  were  united,  and  wei-e  drank  together. 

Oliver  Dufour,  the  son,  is  well  known  throughout  Indiana,  from  his  connection  with 
Odd  Fellowship.  He  was  elected  Grand  Master  in  1851,  and  in  1852  Representative 
to  the  Grand  Lodge  of  the  United  States.  In  1853  he  was  a  member  of  the  State 
Legislature,  and  in  1854  received  from  President  Pierce  an  appointment  in  the  Gen- 
eral Land  Ofiice. 

Until  the  removal  to  Washington,  consequent  upon  this  appointment,  Mrs.  Dufour 
had  remained  a  resident  of  Indiana.  She  is  emphatically,  therefore,  a  child  of  the 
Weftt,  by  birth,  by  education,  by  marriage,  by  residence.  Her  poetical  talents  are  ex- 
clusively of  Western  culture.  Add  to  this,  that  the  constantly  multiplying  cares  of 
an  increasing  family  have  so  far  engrossed  her  life,  that  they  left  but  brief  intervals 
of  quiet  leisure,  either  for  the  cultivation  or  the  exercise  of  her  poetical  powers. 
Still,  under  every  discouragement,  she  wrote.  "  Out  of  the  fullness  of  the  heart  the 
mouth  speaketh."     Many  of  her  fugitive  pieces  graced,  from  time  to  time,  the  columns 


406  AMANDA    L.    R.    DUFOUR.  [ 


ut*  the  Louisriile  Journal^  tlie  Odd  Fell(/WM*  Ark,  at  Culumbiu,  Ohio^  and  olliei 
I'm  |>eriodical8. 

A  pKKl  niuiiy  of  Mrn.  Dutuiir's  pruductiona  are  of  a  devociooal  chancfti 
those  bri'athe  the  Hpirit  of  mingled  piety  and  cliarity,  which  the  may  haTC  n 
from  her  father.  I  lor  lines  on  **  Thou<:^ht,'*  frau<;ht  with  genuine  feeKiig  and 
tenz<*d  by  graeeful  imagery,  are  from  uii  elulK>nite  poem  unpubliidied.  A  wi 
of  sadness  runa  tlin»ug)i  many  of  this  author's  pieeea; — whether,  like  her  piefy, 
nal  inhoritance,  or  wlietlier  lK)m  of  thasc  sad  ex|ieriences  of  the  world  thai  f 
toll  u|>on  a  sensitive  and  ])o<»tic  nature,  wo  can  only  conjeilure.  But  there  »  i 
however,  of  idle  and  siokly  sentimentality  in  this  strain  of  sodneM ;  it  breath 
a  heart  strengtiiened  hy  hope  and  (*ounigc,  for  all  the  duties  of  life. 

Her  lines  entitled  ^  C<>nfes.Mon '^  might  alone  establish  Mrs.  Dofbar^s  title 
inlK>rn  poetie  tenii)onunt>nt.  There  is  no  true  poet  who,  in  momenta  of  in0| 
has  not  emlKxlied  and  addresi^ed  the  ideal.  And  there  is  no  better  test  of  tfa 
and  purity  of  the  poetio  vein  than  the  tone  and  manner  of  such  an 
passioned  lines  are  wont  to  <lisi*losc  all  that  is  noblest  at  once  and  wi 
inner  heart  of  the  writer ;  and  in  them,  therefore,  we  may  seek,  with  beat  A 
obtaining  a  clew  to  the  just  appreciation  of  the  character,  and  just  rfimaii 
genius  which  tlms  con(*eives  and  pictures,  not  what  is,  but  what  might  be;  ■ 
we  over  fmd  in  this  world,  but  still,  what  we  can  imagine,  and  may  hope^  p 
to  meet  with  in  another. 


THOU  COMKST  NOT. 


Thou  eomest  not!      No   longer  i 
lilos**omA 


Tiit»i:  comest  not!     The  sweet  wild  n)so       >**'r»'""'*  «»i«  woodland  and  the 


(if  Summer 


bowers; 


l^Mig    days    agt>,    its    latest    i>eriume   *'*"**''  ;^«»»^'"-^  l«'aves  upeak  to  ■; 


^ht•<l ; 

Thf  harvi".t  fruits  have  riiH^-neil  and  lieeii 
ganicn'd, 
Thr  Idillio  bird->ongstors  from  the  bower.-* 
a  1*0  Hod. 


of  longings 
That  lilletl  the  chalice  of 


Thou  oomest  not !     And  yet  the  pd 
starlight 
(fleams  as  on  tliat  sweet  eve  vh 
wi»  met ; 
But  on  the  ear  the  moan  of  wim^ 
Falls,  like  the  echo  of 
greL 


TliiiU  oomost  n(»t !     The  rainbow  tints  of 
Autumn, 
.S|.iiiilkl«Hl,  lik«*  shatton'd  gems,  o'er  hill 

and  (It'll, 

\ii    t:i.)<d  now,  and  through  the  leuth'ss  Thou  <^)most  not!      Alas!  the 
Iniiiirhi"*  !  numUrcd 

liiiiji-  otit  the  wild  wind  his  sepulchral,      In  whioh  our  heartfl  mi^il 
Liitll.  !         anil  free. 


0.] 


AMANDA   L.   R.   DUFOUR. 


407 


36  the  world  has  many  paths  of  glad- 

ea&y 

me  but  one — ^the  path  to  dreams  of 

tieel 


THOUGHT. 

lail!  free,  holy  Thought!  No  tyrant's 

light, 

jtter  and  imprison  thee,  for  thou 

ifinite.     I  wander  in  the  crowd, 

ig  alone  with  thee.     And  when  thy 

oice 

s  to  my  soul,  the  voices  of  the  throng 

m  my  ear  discordant  or  unheard. 

,  oh,  gentle  and  mysterious  Thought, 

lit  thy  coming  and  ascend  thy  car, — 

wift-winged  car  of  light,  in  which  my 

oul 

Lvenwai*d  wafted,  in  its  upward  flight. 

thy  wooing  in  the  midnight  lone, 
I,  save  the  zephyr's  sigh,  no  tone  but 
bine 

:s  the  deep  silence.     Then,  hke  pale 
tar-beam, 

;  thy  pure  halo  o*er  my   suffering 
leart. 

when  thy  wingc^d  steeds  approach  the 
"ealm — 

hadowy  realm,  where  hopes  and  fears, 
ong  dead, 

ler  on  Lethe's  banks  ;  where  forms, 
ong  lost, 

)ndly  cherished,  reappear  once  more ; 
•e  clasp  of  love  I  feel,  so  long  un- 
elt ; 

e  words  I  hear,  were  spoken  years 
igo 

my  heart  of  hearts :   then  I  kneel 
lown 

e  thy  holy  shrine,  celestial  Thought, 
Dless  thee,  as  my  soul's  divinity. 


BY-GONE  HOURS. 

I'm  thinking  of  the  days,  mother, 

Of  childhood's  happy  days. 
When  all  the  world  was  bright  and  gay, 

And  full  of  gladsome  lays. 

I'm  thinking  of  that  joyous  time, 

When  sitting  by  your  side, 
You  smiled  and  sighed  and  blessed  your 
child, 

With  all  a  parent's  pride. 

Oh,  I  remember  well,  mother, 

In  twilight's  gentle  hour. 
How  soft  the  summer  breezes  were 

Within  our  garden  bower. 

And  how,  when  peaceful  stars  shone  out 
From  the  deep  vault  of  even, 

With  glowing  cheek  you'd  sweetly  speak 
Of  our  sweet  home  in  heaven. 

Those  days  were  very  bright,  mother, 

And  now  they  seem  to  me 
Like  fairy  isles,  far,  far  away, 

Girt  by  a  troubled  sea. 

Ah  1  then  my  heart  had  known  no  care, 
My  eyes  had  wept  no  tears ; 

And  scarce  a  cloud  had  crossed  my  brow 
In  all  those  blissful  years. 


HYMN. 

Father,  in  the  skies  above, 

Unto  thee  we  bow  ; 
Shade  us  with  thy  wings  of  love, 

Grod,  protect  us  now. 
Keep  us  in  the  paths  of  peace, 

Patient  trust  impart ; 
Sin's  obscuring  stains  erase 

From  each  acliing  heart. 


408 


AMANDA    L.    R.    DUFOUB. 


Every  passion  grant  us  grace 

Meekly  to  subdue ; 
Let  ix>t  clouds  conceal  thy  face 

From  our  human  view. 
Teach  us  hoi)efuHy  to  live, 

Give  us  faith  sincere ; 
Help  us  freely  to  forgive 

Faults  we  all  must  shai^. 

Let  US  pardon,  let  us  love 

All  our  foes  below ; 
And  thy  blesbings  from  above 

Ask  thee  to  bestow. 
May  our  heartis  fear  none  but  thee. 

May  we  seek  but  heaven, 
Live  but  for  eternity, 

By  thy  love  forgiven. 


REVERIES. 

In  the  twilight  I  am  sitting, 

Dreamily ; 
0*er  my  soul  are  phantoms  flitting 

Muunifully. 
And  the  winds  without  were  sighing, 
And  within  dark  hhadows  lying» 
And  my  restless  heart  kec|M  throbbing 
To  the  night-wind*s  t^obbing,  sobbing 

Plaintively. 

Embers  on  the  hearth-stone  lying 

Fade  away ; 
Emblems,  to  my  spirit  sighing. 

Of  decay. 
So  ho|)e'8  light  is  slowly  flitting 
From  my  heart  as  thus  I*m  sitting 

Drearily. 

And  my  lonely  spirit,  roaming, 

Ix>v**s  to  floe 
Tlinmgh  the  past's  unrtTlain  gloaming. 

Wild  and  free. 


For  amid  her  boon  of 
Comers  a  mui^io-tone  of 
Comes  a  tliriil  of  joj^  iweel 
'Echo  of  some  long-kMt  plroiurn 
0*er  life'i 


Siren  songs  of  days  deported 

Fill  the  air. 
Ere  I  grew  so  weary-heortod. 

Dark  with  core ; 
Ere  the  glorious  wings  of  tnul 
Had  trailed  earthward  to  tlie  doA; 
And  the  halcyon  days  were  gooe, 
Over  which  Love's  sanmer  shona, 

Warm  and  &ir. 

Darker  shadows  now  are  ijing 

On  the  floor; 
And  the  wind  is  sadlj  oghing 

Through  the  door. 
Watching  still  the  djiiig  cmha% 
Suddenly  my  soul  rememben 
A  deep  autumn  sky  al  midniigltf, 
W^hen  the  pale  and  gentle  itarij^ 

Eartli  beamed  o'er. 


I  remember  words  tbeo 

Soft  and  low ; 
Vows,  too,  that  have  all 

Long  ago. 
Scarcely  yet  the  light  bos  frdei, 
Scarcely  dead  the  wreath  love 
Though  within  my  heart  are  Ipmg 
H(>])e's  hist  embers  Aiding  ^7^ 
Pale  and  hm. 


Spirit  mine,  so  wildlj 
Far  awa J, 
Cease  to  wander  'mid  the 

No  more  stimjx 
Pray  that  ho|>e  be  giveOt 
Think  of  tranquil  rest  in 
Whrn\  no  more  with 
Souls,  within  that  blessed 
Dwell  alwaj. 


I84MO.] 


AMANDA    L.    R.   DUFOUR. 


409 


HOPE  ON. 

Toil  on^  toil  on!  oh  sore  and  weary- 
hearted. 
Though   shadows  fall  athwart  the  up- 
ward way; 
Though  beauty  seem  to  have  from  earth 
departed, 
And  through  the  gloom  beams  not  one 
cheering  ray. 
Toil  on,  toil  on  I    Though  there  be  doubt 
and  danger 
Around  thy  path,  with  dauntless  step 
proceed ; 
TlM)ugh  Hope  speed  by  thee  as  a  passing 
stranger. 
Forget  not  Him  who  comes  in  hour  of 
need 

Toil  on,  toil  on !  let  not  thy  spirit  falter ; 
The  path  was  thorny  that  thy  Saviour 
trod. 
With  faith's  strong  hold  grasp  the  eternal 
altar, 
And  trust  the  mercy  and  the  love  of  God. 
In  sorrow's  hour  arouse  thy  troubled  spirit, 
Look  round  thee  on  the  suffering  ones 
of  earth ; 
Up,  and  do  good  to  all!  for  all  inherit 
Souls,  like  thine  own,  of  an  immortal 
birth. 

Toil  on !     Hope  will  return  with  outspread 
pinions, 
And  bear  thee  onward  to  that  realm  of 
light, 
Beyond  the  portals  of  this  earth's  domin- 
ions, 
Where  trembling  faith  is  lost  in  glorious 
sight. 
Toil  on,  hope  on !     To  night  succeedeth 
morning ; 
No  storm  so  fearful  that  it  lasts  alway. 
Death  comes  at  last ;  greet  joyfully  his 
warning ; 
It  ushers  thee  into  eternal  day. 


CONFESSION. 

Mt  senses  wake  to  feeling's  deepest  thrill, 
When  on  mine  ear  the  tones  of  thy  dear 

voice 
Melodious  fall,  like  the  echoes  of  a  harp 
Swept  by  the  evening  winds. 

Thy  presence  wakes 
A  wild,  delirious  joy  within  my  heart, 
Tuning  its  thousand  chords,  with  raptnre 

swelled, 

Till  every  throbbing  pulse  leaps  wild  with 

love's 
Intense  emotion,  and  my  very  soul 

Seems  but  a  part  of  thine.     My  life  is  held 
In  sweet  abeyance  to  thy  gentle  wiU, 
Subdued  and  soflened  by  the  genial  glow 
Of  thy  soul-beauty.    £very  star  that  gems 
The  azure  sky,  and  every  music-tone, 
Whispering  to  spirit's  ear,  the  sweetest 

lays 
Of  brightest  song-birds,  rare  and  balmy 

sweets 
The  freight  from  thousand  blosscHns,  gush- 
ing founts 
In  forest  depths,  where  cooling  zephyrs 

make 
Mysterious  music  at  the  midnight  hour, 
'Midst  emerald  leaves  that  arch  the  lonely 

dell- 
All  breathe  of  thy  pure  excellence,  thy 

love, 
Fidelity,  and  truth.     A  holy  spell, 
A  soft  enchantment  binds  my  spirit  now. 
For  thou  art  here,  unseen,  indeed  unfelt. 
Save  in  my  heart's  depths. 

Tameless  was  my  soul 
Ere  it  met  thine.     None  knew  the  watch- 
word-spell, 
Could  pass  its  portals,  or  subdue  its  wilL 
None  held  the  key  to  my  wild,  wayward 

heart 
That  sat,  like  some  sad  hermit  in  his  cell. 
Alone  and  brooding  o'er  its  destiny. 
None   had  explored  the  still,  unbroken 
depths 


410 


AMANDA   L.   R.  DUFOUR. 


[IMf^ML 


or  its  (lark  wntcri) ;  not  a  tiny  Imrk 


And  mighty  »kill  of  tbe  CreAling  UmoI, 


Attt-r  liiA  imaj;e — he  embodied  tbrc! 


Had  swopt  the  suH'ure  of  its'  >unk's8  waves.  Mouldinf^  its  proudest  woriu    I  love  my  i  jod 
Love  Iiad  not  entered  there.     Not  one  fiur  The  more,  becauM  when  he 

tlowtT 
BKk lined  on  its  desert  banks ;  no  verdant 

S(>Ot 

Or  sweet  oasis,  witli  its  ibunt  and  bird, 
Cool  shade  or  hitty  }>ahn,  ndirved  the  ^loom. 
And  thud  it  m>e  a|uirt,  an  empty  ijhrine 
In  a  d(*>ert('d  L-^le,  the  naked  nM>k 
And  stunted  under<^n>wth,  with  K>atl ess  limb, 
ILs  soh:  >uri'oundin;rs. 

Ah  !  the  ma<;ic  e)mnp:e 
Sinee  thy  transeench-nt  soul,  in  elo^e  eni- 
bniee 


TRIHUTE  TO  IIUMBOLI^.* 

Ate  !  thou  art  King,  by  noblert  manbooi 

erowned. 
King  of  the  realm  of  deep  and  ftanhiif 

thought ; 
Tliy  name  will  lire,  great  Humboldt  vorii- 

renowned, 

!     Immortal    oa   the   eoul    iu   fiuae  iktf 

llath  rla-jKid   my  soul.     Life,  love,  and:  wrought. 

beauty  eh>the  Lf,,^.  ,n.,,,;r.„\i„,i  ,^„,  ^^ryw^^  the  bAm. 

The  rugged    fonns;    thou   hast  imparti.1       fj,,,  ,i,„,^,„.,,  ^  eanh'.  my.teri«L  l» 

^^■"»'"»*»  walked 

And  h<.ihhtul  vig,)r  to  an  arid  mhI.  ^,^^,^.^^^.^.  ^.^,^.^  ^j.  ^^^^  ^  ,^^.j  ^ 

lilo>som<  of  thigraner  now  are  springing       y.^^^^^   ^.^    ^^.^^,^j^j^   ^^^^   ^  ^ 

***'*'^*»'  mcH-k.Ml ; 

And  rarest  fniits  <,f  tn,pie  ehmatc  glow,         ^,^^.^.  ,^^^^^  ^^^  wanAed,  and  tete 

Antl  ripen,  undenuMith  thy  euhun-  th.Tr.  ^^j  ^^^^,  ^^^^^^ 

A  mIvcp  lake,  tnm>lut'ent  to  its  <lf'pihs,        ■«  «  «  «  «  ,         9 

Shrps  in  eahabrauty  by  the  halk>wed  shrine  ^hou  hast  no  country;  for  all 

Of  glnrious  inspiration — haunted  >hrinr,     !      Thee  for  I  heir  own;  and  all 

Haunted  by  limns  of  splendor,  wlwre  the  j|„.^»  King 

<<'r<-h  Of  the  va*it  realm  of  knowfe^ge; 

Of  trur  alliM-iiun  hums,  as  chines  the  >un    j  name 

FiH.m  hraNrn's  pun-st  depih^  some  sum-      AH  future  time*  shall  honor, 

mcr  nit>rn. 
Upon  a  world  waking  to  life  and  light 
And  nrw-lM»rn  happino.'^. 

n<*lov«Ml  oil*'  I 
Tiiou  art  tin*  lri*a>ury  when  in  In  >lnrfd 
Mtir«'  wrallh  than   would   endt>w  a  thou- 

siiid  worlds  : 
And  I  1m\i»  thfe  with  that  inipa'»'»i<MUMl  tru^t  j 
That  jingrl  hears  tc»  aiigrl.     Vor  thy  >pirit| 
lla^  hd  my  rrring  >oul  to  (1«m1.     Through 


^i 


i 


!  Tliv  a<;c  >liou1iI  not  lM.>i<ount«l  hevrlir? 
For  thou  ha.-t  lived  long 
thought; 
(jolih'U  and  r\\M*  thy  mighty  spirit 
At  last  tht>  M>un*e  from  which  iU 

was  raught. 
The  tlmme  on  high,  at  whow  behm  il 
wrought. 


ti 


MM- 


*  Wriirrn  i  ^hiirl  llnir  I^Mv  Ihr 

I  \\«n-liip  and  ailorr  tin*  Inhniti*.  •        ;  :    . ^^  ,  ^ 

Hi"  tiloriitti^  attriiMitt'o  brfun*  nit*  n^e,  ,  t.rfii.|iii-t  jriTt-n  !•>  J««<r|»h  a  Wriiht,tkcAi 

ii-llcriiMJ  ii;nk  Hi  tl.nn'.      1  iw   U*U\  iiiniu    ..         ^  »..._, 

Kiii^  (if  >i  ifiii-f .  thr  Uirlw:  of  w 
AH'I   inM!i  r-MHll   III  .11"   \\itlM'»   l«»  tin*  po"«'r^n-  ,i.  I  u.rtW*  !••  Ulilui«i-." 


JEDEDIAH   HUNT. 


Jedediah  Hunt  was  born  at  Candor,  Tioga  county,  New  York,  on  the  twenty- 
eighth  day  of  December,  1815.     His  father,  also  named  Jedediah,  was  captain  of  a 
company  of  New  York  Volunteers  in  the  celebrated  battle  of  Lundy's  Lane,  in  1815. 
Jedediah,  jr.  emigrated  to  Ohio  about  the  year  1840.     He  is  now  a  merchant  at  Chilo, 
in  Clermont  county,  Ohio.     Mr.  Hunt  has  been  a  contributor  to  Graham* s  Magazine, 
New  York  Home  Journal,  The  Genius  of  the  West,  the  Cincinnati  Gazette,  and  other 
Western  journals.     He  published  "The  Cottage  Maid,  a  Tale  in  Rhyme,"  in  a  thin  oc- 
tavo, at  Cincinnati,  in  ]  847,  and  is  the  author  of  several  popular  prose  articles,  but,  as 
Le  says  in  a  note  accompanying  the  poems  contributed  for  this  volume,  is  "not  a  liter- 
ary man  in  the  generally  received  acceptation  of  that  term.*'     The  pursuit  of  litera- 
ture is  a  recreation  in  such  leisure  as  the  cares  of  an  active  business  life  permit 


THE  WILLOW  BY  THE  SPRING. 

Near  to  my  old  grandfather's  cot, 

A  small  stream  murmurs  by. 
And  from  its  bankr  a  spnng  pours  out 

Whose  bed  is  never  dry ; 
Beside  that  spring  a  willow  stands, 

A  tall  and  stately  tree. 
Oh,  wouldst  thou  learn  the  charms  it  hath  ? 
I'll  tell  its  charms  to  thee, — 
The  willow  by  the  spring. 
The  willow  by  the  spring. 
Oh,  may  it  life  and  strength  receive. 
While  time  the  moments  wing. 

My  mother  on  her  bridal  mom, 

Two  twigs  inserted  there. 
And  twining  them  together  close, 

United  thus  the  pair ; 
She  left  them  to  the  charge  of  fate, 

To  flourish  or  to  fade, — 
But  taking  root  they  rapid  grew. 

And  gave  the  spring  its  shade, — 


The  willow  by  the  spring. 

The  willow  by  the  spring. 

Oh,  may  it  live  and  strength  receive, 

While  time  the  moments  wing. 

How  oft  have  I,  when  but  a  child, 

And  e'en  in  later  years, 
Sat  'neath  that  willow's  drooping  boughs, 

And  bathed  its  roots  in  tears ; 
Not  for  a  sadness  which  I  felt, 

From  pains  that  pressed  my  heart,— 
But  memory  with  her  troop  of  thoughts, 
Bade  feeling's  fountain  start, — 
The  willow  by  the  spring, 
The  willow  by  the  spring. 
Oh,  may  it  live  and  strength  receive, 
While  time  the  moments  wing. 

When  on  the  cultured  plains  of  life, 

A  wedded  pair  I  see. 
Who,  true  to  each,  together  cling, 

I  think  upon  that  tree ; 
There,  green  in  age,  it  broadly  spreads 

Its  branches  to  the  sun, — 


(411) 


412 


JRDEDIAH    HUNT. 


[im^M. 


Distim*t  two  trunks  appear  in  view. 
And  yet,  iU*^y  twain  are  one. 
Tliat  willow  of  my  home, 
That  willow  of  mj  home, 
Oh,  may  it  live  to  grace  the  spot, 
A  hundred  years  to  come. 


TO  THE  QUEEN  OF  NIGHT. 

Roll  on,  O  stately  Queen  of  Night! 

liiot  out  the  stars  that  strew  thy  way, 
And,  rising  up  yon  azure  height, 

Pour  on  my  head  thy  ler^s'ning  ray ; 
My  mind  enjoys  this  pensive  mood 
Of  sober  thought  and  solitude. 

Where   is  the    friend    with   wliom    Fve 
strayed, 

To  tread  this  old  familiar  walk, 
And  >hare  the  change,  alternate  made, 

From  grave  to  gay — by  social  talk ; 
Beneath  the  church-yard's  added  heap. 
That  friend  is  laid  in  dreamless  sleep. 

IIow  soml)er  peer  the  distant  hills! 

How  calm  the  a<«pe<*t  of  the  vale ! 
This  holy  hush  my  bosom  fills 

With  lov(*,  like  some  remembered  tale ; 
Roll  on,  in  solemn  silence  roll. 
And  rouse  the  passions  of  my  soul. 

To  life,  a  solid  peace  impart, 

In  Faith  and  Hojm*,  give  firmer  tru!«t, 
And  iHTve  this  weak  and  tn*mbling  heart 

To  deeds  more  noble,  g(Mieroiis«  just ; 
May  light  from  glorious  Truth,  n*fme 
All  gross  and  sordid  tlioughts  of  mine. 

Roll  tiown,  and  cheer  the  murky  west. 
Leave  earth  alone,  to  gl(KMU  lUid  me, — 

Ami  «*vi-ry  breath  that  heaves  my  bn^ast. 
Shall  1m',  pale  Queen,  a  theme  to  thee. 


Bless  Ciod,  beyond  Time*!  sterile  ihore, 
Are  orbs  tlmt  wax,  but  \ 


For  in  that  world's  tnmsliKent  li^ 
No  shadows  ca>t  their  deep'ning  gboa: 

But  glonk'*s  beam,  forever  bright. 
Its  radiant  realms  of  rest  illuae; 

Suoli  sunny  scenes,  so  sacred,  fiui^ 

Be  mine,  to  view,  etenud  there. 


THE  HUNAN  SOUL. 


Broadcast,  in  nature's  wide 

Unnumbered  worlds,  like 
And  beam  as  beacons,  to  cnhanee 

Some  dawning  glories,  distant  jfl; 
But  in  the  scale  which  weighs  the 
IIow  far  transcends  one  hnman  seal! 

For,  all  those  worlds  may  fade  mmaj^ 
And  sink  in  dark,  forgetfnl  night ; 

But  spirit,  **  bom  of  endless  daj," 
Will  flourish  in  iinfiiding  liglbft; 

Coeval  with  the  life  of  llim« 

Who  rules  the  highest 


VOICES  OF  THE  DKADL 

Although  mv  mortal  form  is  kii 
Beneath  this  rhurcb-yard's  londyi 

The  debt  was  due,  it  now  b  paid. 
And  Tm  a  king  and  prieai  to  QmL 


My    sleep,    how 
pun-,— 
Tlie  worlil  no  more  can 
Though    dead   to  friends, 

vives 

In  Faith's  unclouded 


"7 


PETER  FISHE   REED 


FEB  F18HE  Reed,  one  of  the  popular  contributors  to  the  Weekly  ColunUntm^  a 
started  at  Cincinnati  in  1850,  by  William  B.  Shattuck  and  John  L.  Famum — 
gave  renewed  vitality  for  two  or  three  years  to  Western  literature,  but  when  its 
ie  was  fairest,  became  absorbed  in  a  Daily  Columbian^  which  failed  in  1856 — 
TwK  MoxA.  He  wrote  with  spirit  and  often  with  sweetest  melody.  He  was 
ind  had  been  for  several  years,  a  house  and  sign  painter  in  Cincinnati,  on  whom 
lews  of  Castalia"  fell  with  a  gentle  influence,  cheering  him  in  many  tasks  which 
Ise  been  irksome,  as  well  as  uncongenial.  We  could  not  write  for  him  so  good 
raphic  notice  as  is  contained  in  one  of  his  letters,  not  designed  for  the  public 
His  friends  will  not  complain  if  we  quote  from  it: 

was  bom  at  South  Boston,  May  fifth,  1819.     My  father,  when  I  was  quite 

,  entered  the  army.     When  I  was  nine  years  of  age  I  lost  my  blessed  mother. 

then  no  home,  and  was  subject  to  much  hardship,  but  1  need  not  tell  you  that. 

nost  be  an  orphan,  among  strangers,  and  show  strong  affection  for  poetry,  or 

rather  than  for  work,  to  appreciate  my  experience.     Music  and  poetry  were 

mpanions.     As  I  did  not  see  much  music  I  made  it  for  myself.     I  heard  a  tone 

I  by  a  band  in  the  street  not  long  since,  which  I  composed  twenty-five  years 

I  commenced  life  a  farmer,  and  have  been,  let  me  see,  a  shoemaker,  house  and 

•ainter,  editor,  doctor,  photographer,  music  teacher,  and  now  am  an  artist — a 

r  of  portraits  and  landscapes.     I  made  a  small  fortune — invested  it  in  a  farm — 

ick  took  away  from  me  all  but  the  homestead — and  the  fire  took  that     But  in 

r  vicissitudes  I  have  had  friends  whom  I  love  with  an  outflow  of  affection 

I  cannot  explain.     I  hope  some  day  to  publish  a  little  book  of  music     I  have 

w  on  Decorative  Painting  ready  for  the  press.     I  have  written  a  Romance,  and 

forward  to  a  volume  of  Poems." 

trust  Mr.  Reed's  poetry  as  well  as  prose  will  find  an  enterprising  publisher,  but 
ily  fair  to  say,  that  his  success  as  a  poet  had  been  more  decided  if  the  versifica- 
*  his  chief  poems  had  not  been  obviously  cast  on  peculiar  models  of  modem 

Reed  is  now  a  citizen  of  Indianapolis,  Indiana.     In  the  pursuit  of  music, 
and  painting,  at  a  fireside,  to  the  members  of  which  he  is  passionately  devoted — 
I,  as  he  says,  "Melancholy  locked  arms  with  him  long  years'  ago" — ^he  finds  joys 
make  the  burden  of  life  pleasant  to  bear. 


(413) 


4U 


PKTER    F.    RKED. 


[M» 


IT  IS  I.OVE. 


THK  riCTURE  OS  THE  WALL 


Ol'K  Lillie  wan  fair  as  a  fairj. 
As  incNiot  and  meek  as  a  dore, 


I  ASKM>  a  pruttlin;;  infant,  while  it  |)layc*d 

r)N)n  its  niotlHT*s  lM>soin  with  drli^ht, 
And    wliil<*   the   golden    tresses    eareleHs  As  {da(*id  and  |iiire  as  a  peri, 

stnived  Hut  her  heart  it  wa«  fialler  of  bte, 

Anxnid  its  dimpled  shoulders  pure  and  |  And  merry  wan  she,  as  a  swaDov, 
white — 
"  What  tlel'st  tliou  for  thy  (mrcnt,  gentle 

d(.V«'?" 

It   sniiitNl  in  innocencM^  and  lisped,  **Tis 
love." 


I  asked  a  beauteous  girl,  as  bright  and 
pure 
As  blooming  flowers  of  a  Hummor  day; 
Nor  ;:nef,  nor  smhiess  from  her  eye  could  l^ressed    her    up    in    the    bert  if  b 


And    her   smile   it 
all 
The  smiles  that  the  painter,  ApoUm 
Ever  |»enciled  to  liang  on  the  wall 

Then  we  trimmed  up  her  bonny  Im 

tn>sses, 
While   her  dimples 
smih; — 


lure 


dn'SM^s, 


A  tear,  her  smiling  did  not  eluu^e  away,!      Interlaced  in  the  daintiert  st^; 
For  with  desjmir  her  youthful  heart  ne  e»-  'I'^"'"    we    called    her    oor    swwi  Eo 

strove—  swallow, 

"  What  makes  thee  glad?"  she  lau;rhing      '^Iie  Inmniot  beauty  of  aD, 

answiied,  ^ Love/'  ; -^"'^  ^'''^'  >mile<l,  m  the  glance  of  Apob 

Tract *<!   her    picture   to    hang  a  i 

I  a>ke<l  a  maid,  whose  eye  luul  c<*jLse<l  to  ^  * 

,.*",..',     ,       .      ri   -r  1   1    1     1.    I^"t  I-i!li<*  grew  pale,  just  to  teafk » 
Or  lijrht  the  Iwauty  of  her  la<hMl  elieek,  '^        ■     •        .  • 

.,,11.  1      ,  1  hat  heaven  Imd  a  chum  on  itt  ovik 

Anil  nieUuichnlv  >at  uimhi  her  l>row,  .        ,     .         .       .     ^        . 

.,...".     I  .,  .    1    '  And   we   tearcd   that   the  dapoali  k 

Ami  jrriet  wjis  in  her  snnle  ; — yet  sue  ■ 

...  .If  *""'^ 

.    ,    \                     ...         ,        ,  Of  Lillie  would  soon  be  akxM. 

An«l  ralni  as  spirits  ot  the  realms  alK)ve —  ,w,i       i                           *.  .              .  #• 

....                ,             •  M   I     r  •    1       1  •  11'*'"  her  eve  it  crew  fainter  and  mM 

"What  mars  til  v  pnu'e."     she  faintlv  whis-        .,.'..        ,        ■ 

,      ,        ,,                        '  And  her  voice  lost  the  tnll  m  ds  cut 

pen'd,  *'  Love.  .     ,         ti.it        «      •.      • 

'  And  we  bless d  then  Apollo,  the  psiMtf. 

'     For   the    picture    that   hangi  si  ^ 
I  a*ke«l  a  Inving  wife,  who****  r< mutant  can*'  i* 

To  rliriT  tlie  loved  one,  was  her  g^'a^- 

e^t  pleaMin\  ■  Now  Lillie  lies  under  the  rases. 

And    strnvf   iiief's>anily   that   ^he    mi^ht       That  wearily  wave  at  her  headi 

^li.'ire  *  Hut   ^he   heeds  not,  that  whera  ikt^ 

Tin-   i'i\«'  that  w:i<i  Imt  ih-ap'st   earthly  i^xe-j 

inri-iire.  I      I<  rliillv.  for  Lillie  is  dead. 

Fur  \ii!iii'  rniiitd  tlifir  ln>:irts  her  i-liaplct  And  tlii>i  pictun*.  tluit  never  shall poi^ 

uovc —  j     Is  all  that  is  left  of  her,  alL 

**  WliMt   '.\Mi'(i*n«i  woman's  toil?"  she  an-j  An<l  oh,  how  the  image  we 

swrnd.  '*  l^)vi>.**  I     Of  Lillie,  that  hangs  on  fht 


PETER    F.    REED. 


415 


GLOOM  AND  BLOOM. 

ij  is  dark,  and  cloud  and  gloom 
ily  shadowed  through  my  room. 
J  sic  of  the  gentle  rain 
ased  its  patter  on  the  pane, 
riller  shrieks  and  wilder  song, 
pt  by  borean  winds  along — 
it  still  the  sun  is  shining  high 
bove  the  melancholy  sky. 

gry  clouds  are  floating  low, 
jes  are  swaying  to  and  fro, 
»er  gloom  a  deeper  shade, 
be  meadow,  hill  and  glade, 
though  dark  the  shadows  faU, 
irt  is  sadder  than  them  all — 
et  there's  a  sunny  summer  day 
liose  bloom  can  drive  the  gloom 
away. 

)rld  is  dark,  its  hearts  are  cold, 
and  fro  are  swayed  with  gold, 
adows,  from  the  mammon  gale, 
1  my  moody  spirits  trail 
fear  that  earth,  for  gain, 
)  dissolved  in  golden  rain : 
lit  there's  a  Sun  of  living  light 
bove  this  melancholy  night. 


DOLLARS  AND  DIMES. 

is  music  in  the  tinkling  of  the  dol- 
es and  the  dimes ; 

i  root  of  every  evil,  the  mighty  dol- 
r  of  all  climes, 

At  all  times, 
e  idol  of  the  people ;  it  is  made 
The  scepter  that  has  swayed 


All  the  earth ;  and  its  music  is  the  fiat  that 
has  given 
All  the  power  under  heaven ! 
Aye,  nations  have  been  traitorously  sold 

For  another  nation's  gold. 

Blood  is  spilled,  and  lives  are  wasted, 

Love,  and  joy,  and  peace,  and  friendship, 

all  are  blasted, 
Through  the  music  of  the  dollars  and  the 

dimes. 

•  «««««« 

But  Oh !  the  joys  that  intermingle 
With  the  music  of  their  jingle, 
Are  the  phantoms  of  the  sweet  anticipa- 
tions 

Of  the  morrows, 
That  come  loaded  down  with  sorrows, 
And  are  swallowed  up  with  strange  in^Ett- 
nation ; 
And  the  gnawing  and  the  burning, 
Of  the  bosom,  in  the  yearning 
After  gold,  is  the  earning. 
For  its  votaries,  a  trouble  that  shall  never 
Cease  to  curse  them  and  their  progeny, — 
never  I 


TRUTH. 

Truth  is  a  flaming  target;  broad  and 
bright 

Its  beams  refulgent  glance  athwart  the 
night — 

The  night  of  Error,  that  has  gloomed  the 
land 

Since  first  Creation  came  from  God's  good 
hand — 

And  every  mortal  since  the  world  be- 
gan. 

An  ill-trained  Archer  of  an  ignorant 
clan. 


*  ^♦^ » 


BENJAMIN  F.  TAYLOE. 


Bknjamin  F.  Taylor,  a  son  of  Stephen  W.  Ta}-lor,  late  President  of  Mm&m 
rnivcrsity,  in  lluinilton,  New  York,  was  bom  about  the  voar  1820.  in  Lewif  eonatr. i 
the  **  Empire  State.**  Now,  in  tlic  meridian  of  life,  Mr.  Taylor  v  a  man  of  ftatelj  iin 
wci;;liin^  a1)out  one  Iinndnnl  and  seventy-five  pound:*,  brown  hair,  mdined  to  becvri; 
hir^re  head,  bold  hi>;li  fon'head,  stem  countt^nance,  lar^,  cioeielyi»luiven  hte,  u 
hazel  eyes.  Mr.  Taylor  has  writt(>n  some  of  the  most  beautitiil  litermry  ckeiclMV^  ■ 
some  of  the  sweetest  jrems  of  poetr}',  tliat  have  been  |>enned  in  the 
His  ori^rinulity  of  thou<^ht,  seo|H;  of  imairination,  and  power  of  langnage 
h\v,  liis  resources  appear  inexhaustihh*,  notwithstanding  the  fkct  thnC  he  hv  b^ft 
writer  for  the  public  press  for  over  a  dozen  yeais,  and  suffers  the  wear  and  Imti 
daily  journalism,  lie  was  connected  with  tlie  Xew  Tori  Trihune  eight  or  ten  tm 
a«r(>,  an<l  since  then  has  been  one  of  tlie  editors  of  the  Cluaigo  JoumtiL  In  18^  I 
publish<>d,  in  New  York  City,  a  volume  of  skutche>  akid  poems,  entitled  **  Jaasu 
and  June/* — a  new  edition  of  which  was  issued  in  Chicago  in  I860.  Mr.  Tajkr 
recluse  in  his  disi>osition,  and  sometimes  extremely  des|)ondent.  For  tetcial  vm 
(mst  he  ha*;  b<^n  ^  making  unto  himself  a  name  **  a>  a  public  lecturer.  Hit  dfptf 
nient  of  the  Journal  lieinr;  the  first  two  columns  on  the  initial  page,  ia  jvitlj  pop^ 
with  lovers  of  good  writing.  His  articles  are  copied  into  newspapen  wkidi  eutaM 
in  ull  parts  of  our  country.  ]ilr.  Taylor,  having  no  biisinedui  at  the  priming  nftf  i 
the  Journal^  thinks  and  writes  at  home,  neiir  Wheaton,  on  the  Galena  IJailmail,  tva 
ty-foiir  miles  from  Chicago.     He  visits  the  city  only  when  ^copj"  etwnpela  Ub. 


I  Like  a  blade  from  ita  scabbard,  fir 
RHYMFS  OF  THE  RIVKIl.  i  abroad- 

On.  River  far-flowing,  ^^"'^  ^  •^""^'  "  ^  «« 

How  broad  tl.nu  art  growing,  ^^'  '****  tremutow  blaae, 

And  tlM-  siniinel  HeadhuuK  wait  grimlv i '^*'"^  *''""  ''"'^''>'  ^'^"^  d«wn  by  i 


Through  the  black  heart  of  w^ 
Leaping  out  to  the  iigliCy 


An«l  Knro<'lvd()n  urp^s 
Tin*  lK>l4i-ri«ling  >urges. 
That  in  whil«*-cn-«t«Ml  linos  gallop  in  fromlTlion  art  nvking  with  aunieCt  "i*  ^ 
tlir  -rii.  I  ^ith  the  dawn; 

Cli'tt  the  emerald 
(Ml,  briglit-ln'artJ'd  ri\er, 
^Vith  <'rysialline  tjuiver. 


CMeH  the  mountains  of 
And  t he  shadows  of  rueesiy el  railed  ihcRi 


(416) 


J4a-50.] 


BENJAMIN    F.    TAYLOR. 


417 


Where  willows  are  weeping, 
Where  shadows  are  sleeping, 
There  the  frown  of  the  mountain  lies  dark 
on  thy  crest ; 

Arcturus  now  shining, 
Arhutus  now  twining, 
nd  "my   Castles  in   Spain"  gleaming 
down  in  thy  breast ; 

Then  disaster'd  and  dim, 
Swinging  sullen  and  grim, 
Tiere  the  old  ragged  shadows  of  hovels 
are  shed: 

Creeping  in,  creeping  out, 
As  in  dream,  or  in  doubt, 
1  the  reeds  and  the  rushes  slow  rocking 
the  dead. 

Where  all  crimson  and  gold. 
Slowly  home  to  the  fold, 
0  the  fleecy  clouds  flock  to  the  gateway 
of  Even, 

Then  no  longer  brook-born, 
But  a  way  paved  with  mom, 
ye,  a  bright  golden  street  to  the  city  of 
heaven  I 

In  the  great  stony  heart 
Of  the  feverish  mart, 
the  throb  of  thy  pulses  pellucid  to- 
day; 

By  gray  mossy  ledges. 
By  green  velvet  edges, 
rhere   the   com   waves   its   saber,   thou 
glidest  away ; 

Broad  and  brave,  deep  and  strong, 
Thou  art  lapsing  along, 
nd  the  stars  rise  and  fall  on  thy  turbu- 
lent tide, 

As  light  as  the  drifted 
White  swan's  breast  is  lifted, 
r  the  June  fleet  of  lilies  at  anchor  can 
ride. 

Through  the  close-ordered  ranks 
On  the  forest  fringed  banks, 


With  thy  eddies,  like  children,  at  play  in 
the  shade ; 

Then  unsheathed  in  the  sun, 
Where  they  sle^p,  one  by  one, 
By  the  flocks  of  white  villages  flecking 
the  glade. 

And  yet,  gallant  River, 
On-fljishing  forever, 
That  has  cleft  the  broad  world  on  thy  way 
to  the  main, 

1  would  part  from  thee  here, 
With  a  smile  and  a  tear. 
And  a  Hebrew,  read  back  to  thy  fountain 
again. 

Ah,  well  I  remember. 
Ere  dying  December 
Seemed  to  fall  like  a  snow-flake,  and  melt 
on  thy  breast, 

0*er  thy  waters  so  narrow 
The  little  brown  sparrow 
Used  to  send  his  long  song  to  his  mate  on 
the  nest ; 

When  a  silvery  skein 
Wove  of  snow  and  of  rain. 

Thou  didst  wander   at  will  through  the 
bud-laden  land — 

All  the  air  a  sweet  psalm. 
And  the  meadows  a  palm — 

As  a  blue  vein  meanders  a  liberal  hand. 

When  the  schoolmaster's  daughter, 
With  her  hands  scooped  the  water, 
And  then  laughingly  proffered  the  crystal 
to  me, 

O,  there  ne'er  sparkled  up 
A  more  exquisite  cup 
Than  the  pair  of  white  hands  that  were 
brimming  with  thee! 

And  there  all  together. 
In  bright  summer  weather, 
Did  we  loiter  with  thee,  along  thy  green 
brink; 


27 


•  '  i. 


.."  ri.;iil 


-:  !.v   ti 


!«' 


"  :     '  :•  nr'i  •'■:■-     •  .  •  •■    :-■  .  ■  - 
^Vi  :■»■  ?'.i;»:ir.j  ■-   .  - . 

:ilo?iii. 
I  Iji"  \  .1 1'i'f »  ;  .   p      _       -  -  -    • 
Will;   •".•  -    ili;i:     .        -     ^  -     .-.. 

Liki-  M:irv*-  .  :  ....._. 

-V-  l»:-iL'l»t  :i'i«l  ;i-  IT      "  ■  J  -- 
ri.*'     -iUi-rv     iiii-:       •      : .  -     r-  : 

SIdw  -wijti.'  i:.  '.':••    ■  !--  ,-. --^ 
Th»'  liilliiw-  rI.:iT  -V.-!;  :-  -..  ■-     : 
.Iijin  . 

AliiiM-f  to  :!:••  M  :•■    •*  :"■  -   •  '--■ 

I 

"Tin-  liilK."   til  iT  :i;'    :  :*  j  '  •.   •.' 

■ 

i  nl'    till-   ]»| /•■, 

Aii'l     "tnll    il,.ir    r-.—'::r.-" 
-win.:: 
Tin-  ItiiiiL-  thai  UP'  Tr  !".!•  j  a  :jr.- 

nU  II, 

...      •  iiial   itwc 

1 1.»-  'jr. ..Ill  •"!  ilii-  w!» ;.  :..■  i.  ::*»■ 

tl..-  <jl:i.l. 

Ar--  I'l.  ill  wiili  !:,•■  l.:-i-:i:;i  .  :'  .i 

A   \ii\\    iIiM!  \v:i-  It'-'k-Ii.  :ir»    !i- 
Tl. '■:■■■    'li'i.Iv    ti.i  V     l!-..4r,    *«:." :    • 

•  i  l".;-nl  -.tv        AI.-Mj  •!..    !.::j!.-  :r.-:ii-  ..f  ..> . 
.i.i'i  i  i'  i>i'i  'i\ ' 

m 
I 

•   .     .--^  ■  . 

•  I  ■    1  ■  ■     ' 

.  .   .  ;  ^  ■  ■  ■  .       ;!  ■■        '•■■   1".  .    _•      :.. 

.    i  .  1  . .  I !  . . .  ■  1   ■  •■.:•■■•» 

^^  '    •■■    .■ .    '!■_  1-  !:•  ::■  1  •.»  ■■    . 
■•-li\iii!i.  I'l.t    ;  . 'I    i!..-i-   \\ ■  tl!*  I .;i  til*    \«:. 

U  wi'-  'liii: —  V. mill, 

^  •I.mIjiii  tiiT  thii-r       .Iij»t  TiifuliiSL' l'«'ii»':i!li  tht*  l<hi«*  • 


«i 


4l\'"ll» 


.  N 


•i*  r.  '■• 


r*."*. 


IH>-i")0.1 


DENJAMIN   F.    TAYLOR. 


419 


re  valanced  with  crimson,  and  netted 
with  gold. 

Where  now  are  the  vesper  and  vow — 

hose  spirit-like  breathings  of  sadness  and 
song, 

That  brought  not  a  cloud  o'er  the  brow. 

edimmed  not  a  beam  of  the  bright  sum- 
mer mom? 

Not  wafted  away,  for  the  aspen  is  still ; 

ot  fled  on  the  wings  of  the  hours ; 

Not  hiding  the  heaven — lo !  the  stars  in 
the  clear; 

ot  perished,  but  here  on  the  flowers — 

Those  smiles  of  Divinity  lighting  the 
world, 

Those  breath  is  forever  a  prayer ; 

Who  blush  without  sinning,  and  blanch 
without  fear; 

h !  where  should  they  be,  if  not  there  ? 


SHALL  I  KNOW  HER  AGAIN? 

iH,  have  you  not  seen,  on  some  morning 

in  June, 
Then  the  flowers  were  in  tears,  and  the 

forests  in  tune, 
Then  the  billows  of  dawn  broke  bright 

on  the  air, 
'n  the  breiist  of  the  brightest  some  star 

clinging  there  ? 
ome    sentinel    star,    not    yet  ready  to 

set — 
orgetting  to  wane,  and  watching  there 

yet?— 
LOW  you  gazed  on  that  vision  of  beauty 

awhile ; 
ow  it  wavered  till  won  by  the  light  of 

God's  smile ; 
ow  it  passed  tlirough  the  portals  of  pearl 

like  a  bride ; 
ow  it  paled  as  it  passed,  and  the  morn- 
ing star  died  I 


The  sky  was  all  blushes,  the  earth  was  all 

bliss; 
And  the  prayer  of  your  heart,  "Be  my 

ending  like  this." 
So  my  beautiful  May  passed  awaj  from 

life's  even ; 
So  the  blush  of  her  yotmg  being  was 

blended  with  heaven ; 
So  the  bird  of  my  bosom  fluttered  up  to 

the  dawn — 
A   window  was  open — ^my  darling  was 

gone ! — 
For  the  angel  on  watch  took  the  wanderer 

in! 
But  when  I  shall  hear  the  new  song  that 

she  sings, 
I  shall  know  her  again,  notwithstanding 

her  wings. 
By  those  eyes  full  of  heaven,  by  the  light 

on  her  hair. 
And  the  smile  she  wore  here,  she  will 

surely  wear  there ! 


GOD  BLESS  OUR  STARS. 

"  God  bless  our  Stars  for  ever!" 

Thus  the  Angels  sang  sublime, 
When  round  God's  forges  flattered  fast, 

The  sparks  of  starry  Time ! 
When  they  fanned  them  with  their  pinions, 

Till  they  kindled  into  day. 
And  revealed  Creation's  bosom, 

Where  the  infant  Eden  lay. 

"  God  bless  our  stars  for  ever ! " 

Thus  they  sang — tlie  seers  of  old, 
When  they  beckoned  to  the  Morning, 

Through  the  Future's  misty  fold. 
When  they  waved  the  wand  of  wonder — 

When  they  breathed  the  magic  word. 
And  the  pulses'  golden  glimmer. 

Showed  the  waking  granite  heard. 


I  :>'    F.    TAYI-OK. 


[\Hn  - 


- .  i»i- 


•■    ■■J.-l. 
*     -r    vi-r. 

■  ■ .  ■  ■ 

.  ••.?  ii    Maim.' ; 
I  .      <  iiiai!  uaiiJiTs, 


«.     •  .' 


■.   -    I    N-'W  Kn gland 
.   .'i:     :::auu 
•   .'■  .-i  ilio  I*r:iiii«* 

%.  Ilk    <«  ain[l^, 

■•:•.:  itate 

.'i.-  "iiiirs  for  over.'" 
.  .  -         ■  ■.*  ii  ihrill:*! 

'•^    V.  ilirv  lM»rt»  it 
.     .    -,      .t      •{  ilio  liilL<i. 

..      K       ^«    :     I'illow, 
V  ..  '  .■    '.  HUM'S, 

.t'.t--iiirii, 
•       V       »*  .SA'  l»L(/iii;:  hriirlit— 
,    .     .   »         .1  fii  tlii'ii  I 
..>'»»•    ;  '\niiiiii:  tlut>ii;r|i  it — ] 


Unfurl  it,  tirul  tluit  fiafs  will  ^lilttT 
With  llif  Ilt'aven  ovrriit-aid. 

Oil !  it  wavcti  above  I  he  Pilpimft. 

On  lh«*  pinions  of  ihr  pnivi-r: 
Oh!  it  hillowfil  uVr  the  battle. 

On  thr  -'ur;r«>  ft"  the  air: 
Oh  I  tlie  star-  \i:\\v  ri*»'n  in  it. 

Till  the  Kajzlc  wait.-  the  Sun. 
And  Krredoni  fmni  hi*r  niutinCain  «^  '. 

Hits  eounted  -  Thirtv-ont--" 

Wlirn  the  weary  Yi-4irs  an*  luiltin«;. 

In  the  nii«rhty  mandi  of  Tim**, 
And  no  New  ones  ihrting:  the  tliiv«bi4a 

Of  its  eorridors  sublime; 
Wlien  the  rhirion  call,  "Cl'we  U|i!" 

Hin;;<  alon<r  thp  lino  no  in«ire. 

Then  adifu.  tliou  hIess«Hl  Banner, 
Tlien  udieti,  and  not  before ! 


TUK  WOKLDS  FIMItODIH)  THOr(;HT 

Lo  !  there,  the  breathing  thought. 

Tlie  {)oet!«  Miiij;  of  old. 
And  tliiTe  thf*  buniin;;  word. 

No  tonjriie  had  tully  tokL 
rmil  the  nia;;i(*  IuuhI, 

Th«'  In  lid  conn 'I  it  ion  wnm^hi. 
In  inm  and  in  fin*  it  stand^^— • 

The  world's  emlmdit.'d  Thouj!hL 

Lo !  in  thf  pantin;;  thunders 

llfar  the  echo  of  the  Ap*! 
I^>!  in  the  ;;lnl)e*s  bnjud  breai4.  If^^ 

Thf  |MM't*s  iioblfM  pa!;e! 
For  in  tht-  bnii't>  of  inm  Imrs. 

That  wrdd  two  World*  in  one, 
Th«'  roiipli't  of  a  nobler  lay 

Than  banls  liuve  e'er  begun! 


AUSTIN  T.  EARLE. 


.  Earle  was  born  in  Nashville,  Tennessee,  fifteenth  June,  1821.  His 
when  lie  wjts  about  four  years  old,  his  mother  returned  to  her  native  city, 
[aryland,  and  after  residing  there  a  short  time,  removed  to  Jefferson  coun- 
here  Mr.  Earle  remained  until  his  seventeenth  year.  His  educational  ad- 
«  small,  attending  school  in  the  log  school-house  in  the  neighborhood,  in 
year.  He  subsequently  passed  two  or  three  years  in  steamboating,  and 
towns  on  the  Ohio  river. 

B  settled  in  Cincinnati,  and  became  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  Cin- 
)apers.  In  the  autumn  of  1843,  in  connection  with  Benjamin  St  James 
►ged  in  the  publication  of  the  Western  Rambler^  a  weekly  literary  maga- 
oon  failed  from  a  lack  of  capital  and  experience. 

[r.  Earle  went  to  Mexico  as  a  private  in  the  "  First  Rifles  "  of  the  first 
hio  Volunteers.  He  found  time  during  his  soldier  life  to  frequently  con- 
al  and  prose  articles  to  the  Cincinnati  Dcdly  Times,  Since  his  return 
d  principally  in  Cincinnati,  but  more  lately  in  Newport,  Kentucky. 
s  poetry  is  principally  lyrical,  and  marked  by  ease  of  versification  and 
He  is  also  gifted  with  considerable  power  of  description ;  and  it  is  to 
that  he  has  not  cultivated  his  powers  with  more  perseverance.  The  cir- 
f  his  life,  combined  with  a  melancholic  temperament,  have  contributed  to 
y  cast  to  much  of  his  writing.  He  has  never  collected  his  poems  in  a 
now  contributes  but  rarely  to  the  literary  journals. 


TER  NIGHT,  TIS  DREARY. 

remember  well, 
the  earth  was  covered  o'er 
lat  fast  and  thickly  fell ; 
ling  winds  were  at  the  door. 

the  mill  had  gone, 
r  with  her  toil  was  weary. 

Sue  did  nothing  do, 
.  listen,  sigh  and  yawn, 
ter  night,  ah  me !  'tis  dreary.*' 

logs  were  all  ablaze, 
within  the  chimney  jams. 


And  threw  alofl  the  ruddy  rays, 

Where  to  the  rafters  hung  the  hams ; 

And  on  the  polished  puncheon  floor, 
A  warmth  and  light  we  christen  cheery, 

Yet  sister  Sue  did  nothing  do, 

But  sigh  and  yawn,  as  ofl  before, 

"This  winter  night,  ah  me  I  'tis  dreary." 

The  youngsters  all  had  gone  to  bed. 

And  I  sat  gazing  in  the  fire, 
Imagining  in  the  embers  red, 

A  village  with  its  church  and  spire. 
Old  Lion  to  the  hearth  had  drawn. 

His  limbs,  so  feeble,  worn  and  weaiy, 


(421) 


422 


AUSTIN    T.    EARLE. 


[l«l» 


Yet  sister  Sue  did  nothing  do, 
But  look  and  listen,  sigh  and  yawn, 

^This  winter  night,  ah  inci  *tis  dreary." 

Young  Watch  who  in  his  kennel  kept, 

Commenced  with  all  liis  might  to  bark — 
Then  on  the  porch  wc  heanl  a  step — 

Then  sister  to  me  whisporiHl — **  I  lark  " — 
Then  heard  a  knoi'king  at  the  door — 

Then  bade  come  in — and  came  young 
Leary, 
And  sister  Sue  had  much  to  do, 
And  never  thought,  I  ween,  ona*  more, 

^^Tliis  winter  night,  all  me!  'tis  dreary.*' 


A  MAY  SONG. 

Though   darksome   clouds   and   diilling 
winds, 

Tliou  bringest  oAen  with  thee,  May, 
No  month  more  weh^ome  from  me  linds, 

Or  fills  my  heart  with  thoughtii  more  gay ; 
For  twin  thou  art  with  balmy  June, 

The  merriest  month  of  all  the  year, 
\Vlien  nature's  hari>s  are  all  atune, 

And  blossoms  every  whei'e  appear. 

And  dear  thou  art,  sweet  month,  to  me. 

As  emblem  of  my  lovely  ^lay, 
Who>e  >miles,  as  thine,  can  sunny  be, 

Or  frowns  as  chilling  any  day  ; 
For  twin  to  mo,  as  thou  to  June, 

Is  >lie,  the  fain*st  damsel  here; 
Thou;rli  n)ai<lens  throng  earh  gay  saloon. 

Who  matchless  in  their  bloom  appear. 

All  changeful  wile^  and  willful  airs, 

That  thou  canst  on  a  >uddcn  take, 
My  Mary  with  thee  fn*(pient  ^hart»s, 

Yi't  nrVr  my  constancy  can  ^hake ; 
I'm*  wtll  I  know  that,  night  or  niN>n, 

Her  love  is  niino  fnun  vear  to  vear, 
Aiitl  II«'avf>n  kind,  can  grant  no  biK>n 

TInui  hrr  swi*et  h)v«*,  to  me  more  dear. 


Then  welcome,  welcome  duugelbg  Mi 

No  month  more  welcome  from  mt  fk 
Though  thou  shouldst  coquette  ouuiTi^ 

With  dark.<ome  clouds  and  cfaflliDg 
For  twin  thou  art  to  balmj  June, 

The  poet  month  of  all  tlie  year. 
When  nature's  haqM  are  all  atuae, 

And  blossoms  everj  where  appear. 


THE  FAIR  PENTTEST. 

So  young,  so  sweet,  so  me^  and  far. 

She  seemed  to  be  ahiKWt  diTiae; 
As  lowly  then,  she  knelt  her 

Beside  Saint  Mary's  niiii*d 
And  offered  up  a  sincere  prajer. 

From  heart  as  pure,  fair  maid,  m  jM 

No  pajvion  thrilled  her  gentle 

F*or  all  was  fair  and  calm 
And  yet  she  iowljr  tliere 

What  seemed  to  her  yomg  mini  ai 
For  oil  of  hte  she  had 

In  dreaming  of  youi^ 


TO  MY  DROTIIER  IU5. 


Brother,  tell  me  what 
Idle.  can*If*ss,  onward  straying* 
Still  thy  trust  of  time  Iw haying 

Tiiou»htk*ss  when,  or  i 


Aimless  as  tlie  weeds  at 
Drifting  as  the  wind  is 
Drit^inj;  as  the  tide  is  fiowiq^ 

Heedless  to  ciemity? 

1  Vise  then,  lirotlier.  while 
Willie  thy  heart  with  joy  is 
I W hill'  tliy  friends  are  kindly 
I     Calmly  then  I      world  nrvij^ 


1840-50.] 


AUSTIN    T.   EARLE. 


423 


While  the  sky  above  is  blue, 
Ere  thy  chain  of  life  is  riven, 
Think  if  God  to  thee  hath  given 

Nothing  for  thy  hands  to  do. 


WARM  HEARTS  HAD  WE. 

The  autumn  winds  were  damp  and  cold. 

And  dark  the  clouds  that  swept  along, 
As  from  the  fields  the  grains  of  gold 

We  gathered  with  the  busker's  song. 
Our  hardy  forms,  though  thinly  clad, 

Scarce  felt  the  winds  that  swept  us  by ; 
For  she  a  child,  and  I  a  lad — 

Warm  hearts  had  we,  my  Kate  and  I. 

We  heaped  the  ears  of  yellow  com, 

More  worth  than  bars  of  gold  to  view  ; 
The  crispy  covering  from  it  torn, 

The  noblest  grain  that  ever  grew  ; 
Nor  heeded  we,  though  thinly  clad, 

The  chilly  winds  that  swept  us  by ; 
For  she  a  child,  and  I  a  lad — 

Warm  hearts  had  we,  my  Kate  and  I. 

We  merry  sang  as  meadow  larks 

Who  bathe  in  dew,  in  summer  mom. 
When  mddy  Sol  with  crimson  marks 

The  eastern  sky,  whence  day  is  bora ; 
Nor  heeded  we,  though  thinly  clad, 

The  chilly  winds  that  swept  us  by ; 
For  she  a  child,  and  I  a  lad — 

Warm  hearts  had  we,  my  Kate  and  L 

The  robin  hungry  to  us  came. 

And,  feeding,  listened  to  our  song. 
Then  hung  his  head  in  very  shame— 

Less  joyous  notes  to  him  belong. 
For  heedless  we,  though  thinly  clad. 

Of  autumn  winds  that  swept  us  by  : 
Ah !  she  a  child,  and  I  a  lad — 

Warm  hearts  had  we,  my  Kate  and  I. 


PLOW  SONG. 

Mr  soil  is  good,  for  late  the  wood 

In  tall,  green  forests  o'er  it  grew, 
With  boughs  so  long,  and  boughs  so  strong ! 

The  winds  in  vain  against  them  blew. 
To  speed  my  plow,  I'll  haste  me  now, 

And  turn  the  rich,  red  clover  down, 
That  bathed  with  dew  the  summer  through, 

Hath  fed  the  bees  with  honey  brown. 

My  grain  will  grow,  I  well  do  know, 

Until  the  coming  harvest  time. 
When  from  the  field,  we  seek  the  yield, 

Matured  by  tliis  our  genial  clime. 
To  speed  my  plow,  I'll  haste  me  now, 

And  turn  the  rich,  red  clover  down, 
That  bathed  with  dew,  the  summer  through, 

Hath  fed  the  bees  with  honey  brown. 

I  have  no  care,  my  heart  to  wear, 

But  like  the  warbling  bird  of  spring, 
With  coat  that's  blue,  and  heart  that's  true, 

I'll  merry  toil  and  merry  sing. 
To  speed  my  plow,  I'll  haste  me  now. 

And  turn  the  rich,  red  clover  down. 
That  bathed  with  dew,  the  sunmier  through, 

Hath  fed  the  bees  with  honey  brown. 

My  heart  is  free,  and  thus  shall  be 

A  fount  of  joyous,  gushing  song. 
Till  won,  perchance,  by  maiden's  glance. 

And  that,  ah  me  !  may  not  be  long. 
To  speed  my  plow,  I'll  haste  me  now. 

And  tum  the  rich,  red  clover  down. 
That  bathed  with  dew,  the  summer  through, 

Hath  fed  the  bees  with  honey  brown. 

I  know  a  maid,  with  brows  that  shade. 

Bright  eyes  of  deepest  midnight  black. 
The  nerve  to  do,  the  nerve  to  woo. 

Is  all  to  win  her,  that  I  lack. 
To  speed  my  plow,  I'll  haste  me  now. 

And  tum  the  rich,  red  clover  down. 
That  bathed  with  dew,  the  summer  through, 

Hath  fed  the  bees  with  honey  brown. 


JONATHAN  W.  GORDON. 


Jonathan  W.  Gokdon  wiif^  liorn  August  thirteenth,  1820.  Hi*  &tlier,  WQlii 
Gordon,  wns  an  Irish  hibonT,  who  emignitiNl  to  t!ie  United  States  in  1790,  and  wn 
in  W&^ihington  county,  PtMinsylvania,  whcrc%  August  eighteenth,  1795,  be  nian 
Sanih  Wuhon,  a  native  of  Virginin,  hj  whom  he  hud  fourti^en  children,  of  vhicb 
subject  of  this  notice  is  the  thirteen! Ii.  The  father  mignite<l  westward  with  hii  6 
\y  in  the  spring  of  18:^>,  and  f«etthMl  in  Ripley  county,  Indiana,  where  he  mi 
until  the  time  of  his  death,  January  twentieth,  1841.  Hiit  wife  survived  hiia,i 
May  twenty-ninth,  1857,  when  she  dieil  at  the  residence  of  her  youngwt  danghm 

In  the  mean  time,  the  subject  of  this  skctcli  married  Mids  Catherine  J.  Orcn 
April  thinl,  1843 ;  entered  upon  the  practice  of  the  law,  February  twentj-ceTcnlh,  l9 
went  to  Mexico  June  ninth,  184G,  us  u  volunteer  in  tlie  third  Regiment  of  ladi 
Volunteers;  lost  his  liealth,  and  u|>on  hU  return  studii^l  medicine,  on  aoooant  of  k 
orrhage  from  the  lungs;  received  the  degree  of  M.D.,  1851 ;  remoTed  to  India 
olis,  and  resumed  the  pr.ictiee  of  the  law  in  May,  1852.  He  was  elected  a  mea 
of  the  IIou^  of  Kepn'sentatives  by  the  people  of  Marion  county,  in  1856,  indag 
in  1858;  and,  during  the  latter  term,  was  twice  chosen  8j>eaker  of  that  1 


A  SONG  FOR  NEW  YEARS. 

I. 

AoATN  I  hail  the  blessed  mom 
Tliat  brings  to  all  another  year: 
A  smile  for  some,  for  some  a  te:ir, 

Hut  hoi>e  for  all  to-thiy  is  bom. 

And  joy — the  quenelih'ss  light  of  mind — 
That  forward  springs,  di plaining  rest. 
And  seeks,  Ix'vond  eaiihV  giHMl,  the  best, 

Tin*  True — the  ISeautit'ul — to  tiniL 

Whenever  man  is  found,  is  found 
Th«*  jiiv  of  hope — the  >pirit's  guide 
Amid  the  wr»'ck<  of  lime  and  tide — 

II ts  pilot  oVr  lifeV  Momiy  >ound. 


I     Tills  hope  shall  catch 
]  On  Godword  wing  still 


new  light,  «4U 


Tht;  soul's  ideal  I—*"  Better  itill!" 
With  conscious  force  that  goal  lo  vi^ 
Shall  frvc  it  yet  from  ftam  of  tSm 

i  And  all  that  here  hath  worked  it  OL 

In  this,  within  the  m>u1  is  fband 
The  proof  that  it  sliall  never  die; 
*Tis  brother  of  etemitT«» 

To  an  eternal  progreiia  bound; 

For  countless  aged  cannot  gnmt 
A  good  that  can  no  better  know; 
Nor  eVn  the  best  its  wi»h  o'( 

And  >ate,  at  on^^e,  lU  sateleu 


And  the  dn-am<s  of  farth  an*  trone. 
And  shadows  elond  hi>  mortal  eye ; 


This  want  of  soul  for  fields  imtiod, 
TU\>  <-amest  scuruli  fur  dearsr  1^^ 
(  424  ) 


] 


JONATHAN  W.  GORDON. 


425 


litis  it  from  a  world  of  night, 
r  nearer  to  its  God. 

as  the  soul  with  God  above, 
fired  with  hopes  that  constant  tend 
igher  heights,  as  sparks  ascend, 
i\y  seeks  the  heights  of  love. 

the  all  in  all — the  sum 
nite  life,  thought,  hope  and  joy; 
Ise  we  know  is  but  alloy, 
ars  no  hope  for  yearn  to  come. 

jl  of  soul — essential  bliss! — 
3'er  earth's  dross  may  round  it  cling, 
be  to  each  an  angel's  wing 
him  o'er  death's  grim  abyss. 

lail  bright  mom!   my  song  shall 

5W 

icidental  jar;  but  fixed 

is  high  creed,  shall  flow  unmixed 

scords — ^bom  of  human  woe. 

n. 

•  year  whose  dawn  I  sung 

ir  ago  to-day,  is  dead ; 

light's  pale  noon"  his  spirit  fled — 

mful  winds  his  knell  was  rung. 

ith  me  to  the  grave — ^look  down 
the  coffin — it  contains 
ction  of  our  own  remains — 
)f  life  we  called  our  own. 

ur  own  a  year  ago, 
ow  'tis  in  the  grave — 'tis  dead; 
•t  of  us — of  heart  and  head — 
3f  earthly  bliss  and  woe. 

0  can  tell  how  large  a  part 
n  that  year  himself  hath  died? 
aite  enough — bear  witness  pride — 
tlirob  may  still  the  heart. 

if  is  egotistical  that  gives 
irs  to  the  departed  year: 


'Tis  for  our  buried  selves  the  tear 
Is  shed — ^the  selfish  sorrow  lives. 

The  coffin-lid  on  which  we  gaze, 

Is  all  too  thin  to  hide  ourself  beneath: 
And   throb   by   throb,  and  breath   by 
breath, 

We  die  each  moment  of  our  days. 

Tis  well  in  our  own  fun'ral  train 

To  walk;  nor  dream  the  grave  so  near — 
Nor  deem  each  spark  of  pleasure  here, 

A  severed  fragment  of  life's  chain. 

But  is  it  not?     The  wasting  pile 

On  which  the  laughing  flame  doth  feed. 
And   mock  at  gloom   the   while,  doth 
speed 

To  dust  beneath  the  fiery  smile. 

So  speeds  to  dust  the  templed  dome 
From  which  the  soul's  immortal  flame 
Smiles   down   on  death;   thence,  as  it 
came. 

Leaps  up  to  its  immortal  home. 

Let  thanks  to  time  and  death  be  given. 
For  those  whose  going  left  us  sorrow ; 
We'll  join  them  on  life's  bright  to-mor- 
row. 

Within  the  sapphire  walls  of  heaven. 

III. 

We  drift  upon  a  shoreless  sea, 
On  which  to-day  is  but  a  wave: 
Behind  us  darkly  yawns  the  grave — 

Before,  shines  immortality. 

We  do  not  die,  as  death  doth  seem, 
In  those  we  love;  but  upward  rise 
To  scenes  unseen  by  earthward  eyes; 

And  brighter  than  the  poet's  dream. 

Why  reck  we  then  how  years  depart. 
Since  past  and  future  both  are  ours; 
And  hope  and  mem'ry  twine  their  flow'rs 

In  garlands  grateful  to  the  heart? 


426 


JONATHAN    W.    GORDON. 


IINI 


IV. 

Our  li!v  is  tlin>e>fol(l — three  combine 
Kn*  we  rail  leave  the  sense.s*  ni^rht. 
And  Kcnle  the  reasons*  elou<lless  height, 

Where  truth's  unfading  trea>un»s  shine: 

Tht*  Past,  the  Future,  and  the  tie — 
S<'lt'-<ronseious  tliought — that  makes  them 

one, 
Make  man,  who.«e  flight  of  lift*,  begun, 

Sweeps  on  fon»ver,  bright  and  high. 

Aixl  thus,  while  on  tlit^  topmost  wave 
Of  time  we  sail  to-<lay,  I  gre«*t 
Kai-h  with  a  song — an  eeho  meet. 

Of  voices  now  beyond  the  grave. 


TALK  STAU. 

Pai.k  star,  that  shone  njM»n  my  youth, 
Willi  cjihn  and  steady  niv, 

Tlinu  all  the  onlv  frirnd  who^e  truth 
lias  never  known  de«iy. 

And  oft  as  night  n>turns  I  gaze 

In  nii>turf*  up  to  thee. 
And  det'm  thy  g<'ntle  Iifaniing  rays 

Inti'iidcd  hut  for  me. 

For  nft  \\v  watchi-^I  ihv  ludv  li«'ht 
In  rhililhiNHrs  sinh^^s  htmr: 

And  in  th<'  still  (h'fp  hii>li  of  night 
Ilavr  tlirillcd  U'nrath  it>  {NiWfr. 


And  whrii  the  ean-worn  world  hath  sh'pt/    ,j;  ckowPS.  ANI>  YET  SADLY  AU* 

rvi>  ^tulf  fmrn  niair>  uInhIi' 
And  iH'in  with  tlifc,  and  vigil  krpi. 


How  Mul  that  wikl  »tns«iii  miiJipar*4  a 
When  day  had  baniflMsd  tbce: 

All  nature  tlien  wa&  blank,  wad  dawn 
And  daj  a  ctine  to  me. 

And  when  at  bii^t  the  iun  went  dowa, 
Tvc  watched  Lis  shining  tiack 

A  moment  with  u  childi:!^  frown. 
Then  wished  he*d  ne'er 


And,  th«*n,  with  what  deep  joj  Ftc  tor 
To  eatidi  thy  pifrieAS  beam. 

As  on  th«'  azure  sky  it  burned 
AIjovc  my  heart's  wild 


IX*ar  stream  of  childhood's  bappj 
To  my  foud  soul  'twas  giveOt 

To  hear  thy  matehlej^s  niu»ic 
In  eclioes  back  from 


Hut  long  ago  tliOMs  eclioes  died 
Within  my  Ikfurt,  sweet  fltma» 

And  sunk  beneath  Iite*s  rettleit  dik; 
E*en  thou  art  but  u  dream. 

But  still,  I  Nile  star,  thy  constant  nj 
lias  IxM-n  my  steadfast  friend; 

And  lingers  btill  o'er  life's  wiU  war, 
From  diuigi*rs  to  furefend. 

And  thou  wilt  shine  upon  the  spot 

Whei-e  1  .'•hall  lay  my  head 
In  deaih — fonri'iful- 


Among  the  n.uueless  dead. 


Ni-ar  the  bright  tlinMic  ul    (itHl. 

Arid  win  n  ;di»n«'  by  tin-  wiM  Mn-am 
TiiMf  knrvv  niv  inraiil  ('«'<'!. 


In  en»wds,  anil  yet  sadly 

I  gaze  on  the  blue  sky  at  erta 

And  Ii>t  tu  till*  mellowest  looe 
Thai  iviT  fidl  Miftiv  from  betTtf' 
TIk'  tniif  «if  ttif  harp  of  the  air, 


r\i-  ilmiijlit  (it'  tliii',  ami  dreamed  a  dn-am  linatbin!;  warmly  and  few,  aiM  tff" 
( )l'  ln\i' — pun*.  >inli  >",  >ui"i't.  I  pniy4*r, 


40-50.] 


JONATHAN    W.   GORDON. 


427 


ill  it  fills  my  wild  heart  with  a  thought 
of  the  past — 

K>  bright,  in  its  dreamlight  of  beaatj,  to 
last. 

But  give  me,  O  give  me,  the  evening  air, 

With  its  voice  of  love,  and  its  spirit  of 
prayer. 

To  blend  with  the  hum  of  the  murmur- 
ing stream, 

Whose  waters  glide  on,  like  a  beautiful 
dream. 

Alone,  yet  how  thrillingly  near 

To  all  I  have  loved,  now  departed; 
To  her  who  ne'er  spake  but  to  cheer, 

And   bless   with   her  love  the  lone- 
hearted: 
nd  now  whilst  I  gaze  on  the  sky. 
And  the  stars  in  their  brightness  are 

shining  out  there, 
remember  how  often  my  gentle  one's  eye 
Used   to   gaze   on   those   stars,  as  she 

whispered  her  prayer. 
Her  eye!  'twas  the  light  and  the  quiet 

of  my  life — 
Unclouded  by  passion  and  warning  from 

strife, 
No  star  ever  shone  in  its  beauty  above, 
Half  as  bright  as  her  eye — the  pure 

star  of  my  love. 


TO  VIOLA  IN  HEAVEN. 

I  AM  alone : 
'o  me  the  world  hath  lost  its  brow  of 
gladness. 

And  dewy  dawn, 
bd  day  and  night  have  robed  themselves 

in  sadness, 
Lnd  life  hath  naught  for  me  but  agony  and 
madness — 

Since  thou  art  dead. 


Thy  soul  hath  fled 
To  its  bright  sphere  afar  beyond  death's 
river; 

Whilst  I  am  led. 
In  gloom  and  grief  along  its  shore  forever; 
And  call  thy  name,  but  hear  thy  gentle 
voice— O  never  I 

Since  thou  art  dead. 

Life's  dre^im  is  o'er — 
Its  spell  upon  the  heart's  deep  fountain 
broken 

Forevermore : 
But,  in  each  word,  thy  lute-like  voice  hath 

spoken. 
Thou  still  hast  left  me  many  a  treasured 
token, 

In  mem'ry's  store. 

All  warm  and  bright 
Thy  soul  on  mine,  in  each  seems  fondly 
glowing 

In  love's  own  light, 
And  on  the  dim  drear  gloom  of  grief  be- 
stowing 
A  constant  beam — pure  as  the  stainless 
starlight  flowing 

From  heaven  to-night. 

O I  while  the  light 
Of   thy  last  smile   upon  my  soul  doth 
quiver, 

As  pure  and  bright 
As  day's  last  smile  upon  the  blushing  river. 
Friend  of  my  soul,  I  know  thou  art  not 
gone  forever — 

TKs  only  night 

The  mom  will  rise ; 
And  for  this  night  an  endless  day  be  given, 

When  thy  dear  eyes. 
Whose  sad   eclipse  sheds  darkness  o'er 

life's  even. 
Will  shine  for  me,  in  some  bright  love-lit 
isle  of  heaven 

Beyond  the  skies. 


I).  BETHUNE  DUFFIELD. 


D.  Beth  UN  E  Dufkikld,  pon  of  Rev.  Gvoi^  Duflield,  D.D.,  and  F^^M^a  Gn 
1mm  DulReld,  wad  bom  in  Carlisle,  Cumbi*rlaii(l  county,  Pennsylvania,  in  1821,  wWr 
lie  re>i(l(Hl  with  his  ]>arents  until  their  removal  to  Philadelphia.  He  remained  i 
(icliool  in  Philadelphia  until  183G,  when  he  entered  Yale  College.  In  1842  Ik  gndi 
atcd  at  the  Yale  Law  School,  and  was  a<lmitted  to  the  bar  at  Detroit, 
1843.  In  that  city  he  has  since  continued  in  active  practice.  During  tlie 
part  of  the  la^t  twelve  years  he  lias  been  prominently  engaged  on  behalf  of  the  fi« 
schools  of  Detroit,  and  has  latterly  served  as  the  President  of  the  Board  of  hka 
tion  for  that  city.  In  addition  to  the  labor  of  a  krge  practice  he  is  freqoentlj  crir 
u]K)n  as  a  lecturer  and  writer,  and  as  sudi,  maintains  an  enviable  nmk  among  il 
young  men  of  his  State. 

His  character  as  a  man  of  integrity  and  as  a  Christian  gentleman,  is  withoal  n 
pnmcli,  and  in  all  the  various  relations  of  life  he  seeks  the  honest  dischar)ge  of  md 
duties  as  arc  devolved  on  him  by  Providence. 

His  {)oems  arc  evidently  more  the  result  of  s|K)ntaneous  expression  than 
labor,  but  although  rapidly  pn>pared,  evince  a  degree  of  poetii-al  talent  whieh 
ises  prominence  among  tlie  writers  of  the  North-west,  if  not  of  a  still 


TIIK  MAID  OF  CHAMOUNI. 

At  Chamouni  I  kissed  a  maid, 

A  slicphenloss  wjls  hhe, 
And  not  a  single  wonl  she  said, 
\U\i  high  she  tossed  Ikt  graceful  hea<l, 

And  sternly  frowned  on  me. 

Tli:it  she  w:is  i)ure,  though  low  in  rank, 

N»  one  could  fail  to  s«*e, 
Pun>  as  the  wreath  of  old  Mont  Blnnc, 
AVlio-ic  >hadow,  wht-n  the  sun  Iul-^  sank, 

Kii-hnHids  all  Chainouni. 

I  t(»lil  hi-r,  I  h:id  longed  to  tiL^tc 
Tiio  di'W'i  of  Chamouni, 


I  And  the  first  flower  that  I  had 
Whose  |K.'tal  lips  thos^e  dews  had 
Was  she,  and  only  she. 


Th«'n  spake  the  maid  with  scoinfiil 

^  You  live  }>eyond  the  sea. 
But  know  this  rule  of  every  where, 
*  The  thorns  grow  where  the 
Holds  gcNMl  in  ChamouuL' 


Twit^  all  >he  said,  then  waTcd 

And  ])nrtt*<l  company^ 

!  Yet  still.  1  could  not  help  hot 

'  And  watch  her  ami  her  tSnfcKiiy 

Till    sluiflows    from    Mont 

s[tanM«*tl 

The  vah'  of  CliamounL 


Btee  hi 


1840-50.] 


D.   BETHUNE   DUFFIELD. 


429 


THE  MORNING-GLORY. 

In  darkness  and  in  tears, 
The  night  of  sorrow  sped, 

As  I,  with  lacerated  heart 
Kept  vigil  with  the  dead ; 

And  o'er  my  baby's  pallid  brow 
The  scented  waters  shed. 

The  morning  broke,  but  ah ! 

It  brought  no  light  to  me, 
For  ere  that  solemn  day  should  pass. 

My  child  would  hidden  be 
Beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  hand, 

Sealed  for  eternity. 

In  wretched  mood  I  turned 
And  threw  the  casement  wide, 

When  lo  I  in  all  its  pearly  bloom, 
Its  soil  and  tender  pride, 

The  Morning-glory  reared  its  head. 
And  blessed  me  as  I  sighed. 

From  out  its  smiling  eyes 

Flowed  words  of  sweetest  tone, 

And  wliispered  that  in  Paradise 
With  gloiy  like  its  own, 

My  child  that  morning  bloomed 
Above  Christ's  holy  throne — 

And  so  this  flower  to  me  became 

The  precious  emblem  of  its  name. 


FAREWELL : 

AN   ANTE-NTTTIAL  LOVE   BONO. 

Farewell,  Mary,  for  a  season, 
Though  that  season  brief  may  be, 

Yet  the  word  must  still  be  uttered, 
Farewell,  Mary,  then  to  thee. 

Farewell,  till  Spring's  softest  breezes 
Sweep  around  your  open  door. 

Till  the  garments  of  old  Winter 
On  the  hills  are  seen  no  more. 


Farewell  till  the  maple's  blossom 
Dances  on  the  swaying  bough, 

And  the  blue-bird's  joyous  love-song 
Echoes  all  your  garden  through. 

Farewell,  till  the  fragrant  meadow 
Hails  the  bright  and  jocund  May, 

And  the  lark  mounts  up  to  heaven. 
Pouring  forth  his  bridal  lay. 

Farewell,  till  all  nature  wakens 
And  each  brake  and  shady  grove, 

Whispers  with  its  thousand  voices 
All  the  murmuring's  of  love. 

Then,  dear  Mary,  I  shall  join  them. 
And  once  more  upon  your  breast, 

Sing  in  words  of  heart-rejoicing, 
What  the  birds  sing  round  their  nest 


EARTH^S  MOTHER-LOVE. 

He  who  once  has  known  a  mother. 
Kind  and  loving  through  his  youth, 

Nevermore  can  love  another 

With  an  equal  strength  and  truth. 

Mother  I  'tis  a  word  that  opened 
Lips  divine  in  Bethlehem's  stall. 

And  that  word  has  ever  tokened 
Christ's  own  love  to  those  that  &1L 

From  that  life  of  sad  dejection 
All  our  Lord  could  bear  above, 

Was  the  pure  soul-fed  affection 
Of  his  virgin  mother's  love. 

Well  he  knew  her  deep  devotion. 
To  the  babe  that  graced  her  knee. 

Well  recalls  her  wild  emotion. 
Witnessed  at  the  &tal  tree. 

And  from  those  enthroned  in  glory 
As  the  circling  ages  move, 


4Sf) 


R  HKTIIL'NE    DUFFIELD. 


lim-u 


l\v  will  still  respect  the  story 
Of  n  mother's!  earthly  love. 

Fur  it  8eeras  man's  first  contrition, 
Prom|)tin<;  to  th*^  heavenly  birth, 

Oi\  niatiin*s  to  full  fruition, 

Thro'  the  mother's  prayers  on  earth. 

Tln'n  let  earth  in  jrrateful  chorus 
C'hunt  the  nioth<*r-love  she's  known, 

(ila<I  that  Go<rs  own  ehilil  l>etbre  us 
Korc  its  fragrance  to  II is  throne. 


Iler  gentle  words  on  ocean*i 
Fell  hilently,  all  nleutly — 

But  the  nmidi'n  Iiad  no  answer 
k^ave  the  aoIm  uf  the  MMinding 
Tlic  MMinding 


THE  SOrNDING  SEA. 

A  MAIDEN  sat  on  the  rock-piI(*d  beach, 
All  prnsively,  all  p«*nsively,  l 

And  hymned  her  fading  girllKKxl's  thoughts ; 
In  the  ears  of  the  sounding  sea, 
The  sounding  sea. 

My  lite  is  breaking  fnjm  youth's  s|h»11 

Full  i*api<lly,  full  rapidly, 
An<l  soon  my  bark  must  launch  and  sail 

O't-r  the  waves  of  this  soun<ling  scu, 
This  sounding  si*a ! 


A  SABRATU  SUNSET  PRATO. 

Tis  Sflblmth  ctc — the  ran  in  slow  Mi 

Ik* hind  tlie  cloudiit  hid  banner  bi^gltf  b 

furled, 

And  lofty  trees  in  lengtiiening  dvloi 

read 

Their  solemn  lesson  to  a  pensire  war 

AlN)ve  the  cIovcr-bloMoms  of  tbe  ML 

Like  aged  men  who  whh  their  chiUi 

dwell. 

The  (hmilelions  with  their  silveiT  hnk 

.     Ki'peat  the  story  thai  the  ahadoin  fed 

A  siul-voiced  bird  from  out  the  Mfl 

bougli!), 
Full  gcmmeil  and  dripping  with  the  i 

crnt  >hower. 
Sends  forth  his  pkuntive  note,  and 

to  sing 


A  lay  well  suited  to  the  tnuiquQ 


And  who  with  ft^arless  heart  will  eome 

To  pilot  me,  to  pilot  me? 
Wli(»  siiirld  me  from  that  temp<*st's  wrath 

Wliidi  othimes  smites  the  s<mnding  m -a,  Tin*  n*-ighiiig  steed  upon  the  diitaal  k3 

Now  lit\s  his  heaid,  and  waits  hit  ■ 
ti-rV  «-alK 
While  i'vxfin  the  meadow  and  the  Ih^ 

WimmI, 

TIk-  lowing  cattle  seek  the 

.<-t:dl. 


TIk'  S4)undiiig  sea ! 


Wlint  <U\v  shall  shine  alonj:  mv  wav  ? 

Wiio'll  :in>wiT  nif  r  who'll  answer  me 
\Vli:it  liiirUir  «hall  mv  anchor  hold. 

It'  -:if«-  I  p;i^^  llii>  ■»onfi<liii;j  "i-a? 

Tiii>  .-nMrnliM;r  MM  I 


Fr.'«I  ^'-irk-  !i;iv<'  rnrrii'ij  oiJHT-i  o'rr, 
'?'!■•■■  wliv  ?iii!  iiH' ?   ~.MV.  wliv  not  nil'? 

Sun*  llii  n-*^  a  pilut  ami  a  hni-zt' 
Th  ln'ar  Mil'  o'lT  thi-s  >oiiiidiii<;  >ea? 
Thio  soumliii;;  S4*a ! 


T!ii'  fl.i'-pin;;  swallows  round  the 
t«ip. 

l:\  :i:rv  rin'ling<i  drop  into  their 
And  *ni*ath  the  night-bird's 

Tin-d  nature  culmlj  lays 

D'st. 


>.] 


D.    BETHUNE    DUFFIELD. 


431 


it  the  shadows  round  my  life's  decline, 

'  linger  long  before  the  night  shall 

)me, 

[eaven's  mild  glory  down  that  valley 


ime. 


3ugh  which  my  weary  feet  must  lead 
e  home. 


ANNIVERSARY  ODR* 

ye,  whose  feet  old  Erie  kindly  laves, 

oin   to  pour  an   anthem  o'er  her 

aves, 

ay  to  her  broad  breast  she  calls  the 

ee, 

Ids  them  welcome  to  her  jubilee. 

stately  Queen  of  all  the  lordly  lakes 
where  Niagara's  thundering  chorus 
"eaks, 

forth   a  strain   of   nature's   lofty 
raise 
3II  the  chant  thy  sister  cities  raise. 

thou  old  Erie,  w^orthy  of  thy  name, 

g  the  trophy  of  thy  hero's  fame, — 

agments  of  that  torn  and  shattered 

reck 

)attle*s  footprints  still  upon  the  deck ; 

lou,  too,  ancient  "  City  of  the  Straits," 

forth  the  guns  that  once  assailed  thy 

ites. 

hou  fair  Forest   City,  gliding  from 

ly  grove, 

like  the  swan  and  o'er  the  waters 

lOve. 

ly  Sandusky,  nestled  in  thy  bay, 

'  lovers  dream  the  evening  hours  away, 

with    Monroe    from    river    Rasin's 
lore 
roud  Toledo,  valiant  as  of  yore  ; 

urtit  from  an  ode  read  at  a  celebration  at  Put>in- 
the  forty-flfth  Anniversaiy  of  the  Battle  of  Lake 
•tember  tenth,  1858. 


Come,  grave  Maumee,  for  years  full  wide- 
ly known, 

By  heroes,  and  a  fever  all  thine  own. 

****         «••         • 

Let  all  our  cities  in  one  common  hymn 
Send  Perry's  praise  around  old  Erie's  brim, 
Perry  the  young,  PeiTy  the  bold  and  brave, 
The  Christian  hero  of  our  common  wave ; 
Let  all  the  bugles  their  best  music  pour, 
Let  all  the  cannon  in  glad  triumph  roar, 
And  let  their  echoes,  leaping  from  each 
shore. 

Still  chime  his  name, 
And  lofty  fame, 
Forever,  and  forever  more  I 

New  generations  here  this  day  we  see 
With  brilliant  pomp  and  gay  festivity, 
With  lute  and  tabret  and  the  vocal  chime. 
That  rings  far  down  the  avenues  of  time. 
With  brazen  trump  and  clanging  drum  and 

bell. 
In  soul-refreshing  strains  again  to  tell 
How  well, 
How  bravely  well. 

Great  Perry  stood 
When  shot  and  shell 
Around  him  fell, 
And  vexed  and  seethed  old  Erie's  peaceful 

flood, 
And  dyed  her  emerald  waves  with  valor's 
precious  blood. 

Then  let  us  send  the  towering  shaft  on  high. 
To  court  new  blessings  from  each  morning 

sky; 
To  teach  our  rising  youth  on  land  and  flood, 
That  liberty  is  worthy  of  their  blood ; 
And  on  its  tablet  write,  in  boldest  line. 
Those  words  that  round  this  lake  should 

ever  shine — 
That  modest  message  of  our  hero's  pen — 
Long  may  it  live  among  our  naval  men, 
Long  gleam  from  all  our  armed  forts  and 

towers — 
"  We've  met  the  enemy,  and  they  are  ours  I " 


r 


WILLIAM   ASBURY   KENYON 


The  first  volume  of  poems  published  in  the  State  of  Illinois^  was  printed 
Chii'a^f  by  Jumes  CumpfK>ll  und  Coinp:iny,  in  the  month  of  Jannary,  1845.  Ii« 
a  small  (1u<xlo<*imo,  eontainin^  two  hundred  and  eight  pa^i^oji,  and  wa«  imiiiled  '^Mi*' 
lanoous  Poems,  to  whi<'h  an*  added  writinj^^  in  pro^e  on  various  i<ubject«  bj  Hilt 
Ashnrj'  Kenyon."  The  prose  writin^r*  are  illustrative  ehietiy  of  the  |MwtiiA,thr  mt 
jrtirl  4»f  which  were  evidently  su*^#...^ted  by  pniirie  seenes.  Several  of  tbeni  plfa)« 
ly  satirize  backwcxMls  customs,  but  with  mon;  *Mruth  than  iMietry.**  The  aoibori 
a  native  of  Ilinghaui,  Massiu*hu.setts.  who  tau;;ht  school  in  Illinois,  and  who  liaw 
widely  in  the  Mississippi  Valley.  We  ><dcct  from  the  volume  two  poems  which  hi 
repre>ent  Mr.  KenyonV  eajKieity  as  a  versilier. 


TO  THE  BALTLMORK  ORIOLE. 


CREATION. 


(iAY  little  Oriole,  bird  of  the  Sprinpr,  |     Ckkatiov  is  a  poem«  wrote  hj  Kb 

\Vek*ome,ar;ain,  with  your  glistening  win<!;  AVhose    genius    doth    so  &r  supaa  < 
Thnn^lh  we  lamented  you,  all  winter  h)n;r.  o\*n 

Cjuit  are  we  now,  in  your  sprightlier  song.  That    wise     the     reader    who    »   a 

There  is  your  pensile  cot,  just  as  it  hung,  '  J^hown 

High  in  the  elm,  when*  you  cheerily  sung,  *^«^^'  '•"^""  »"^  knowledge  and  hii  ^ 

Ju>t  as  it   hung,  ol"  yore,  when,   notling  '"•^'  ^'""• 

jIj^.j.,.  This   <-ant(>.   Karth«   will    ne'er  he  ft 

You  and  your  little  ones  swung  in  the  air.  Mumn, 

And     |»art>     innumemble,     eaoL    ft 

Whilr  vnu  w«*re  far  awav,  ot\en  there  cjune  , 

eacMi, 

I'.laM.  wiWlj-   lieiv..;  l.ut  your  c-ot   i>  the-   i,;^,;,,,.,,,.      ^.j^,     ^^     ^     y,^^    , 

sjinie;  _     • 

rf^acii. 

Sav,  if  V(»u  place<l  it  thi-n'.  vonr  little  bill.  „  ,.  j      m  i 

'  .  . '     I  ii-  ii«'re.  evrrv  hue  a  wonder  oTes  ahoiL 

Hail  it  no  Iit'lp,  save  ininitiv(r  .•"kill.''  «.. ,  ,        ,",.  .     .     ^  _   ^.^  , 

' '  ,  AV  id«'iy  sublime,  or  nicely  beantinu; 


How.  in  our  bu*y  mart : — none  othi'is  dan-  Wiih    o!t    a    strain    of 

Viritun-  thrir  not«'S  on  its  turbulfiit  air. —  ti>ne, 

Hnw  c;in  you,  frnries^ly,  rand  sc»  gay.         |  ii,.av..|i-s    swertest    coDKmaiiiW    pcra 

Out  <in  tlie  limb  stn'tchiiig  o\er  the  way?  '  jj^^.  whole 

Jii^t  is  yitur  <*oiitid(ii(*<';  sing,  and  be  fn-e.  The   va-^t,  the   perfect  wholCt  whow  i 
(lavly  Miiir  whi-kiii;^  tlight    iniiigh>  with  thor's  fame, 

;:li-i';  .The  ghii-y  of  the  great 

S:it'i>lv  1  --MX.  in  thr  iiaiiir  of  all  m^n,  Suoulil,  and  will,  ever  live^ 

l>eau(it'iil  ( )i'iolf,  welcome  again! 


sin"  his  name. 


(  4:12  ) 


HORACE   S.   MINOR. 


CE  S.  Minor  was  a  native  of  Tennessee.  I  believe  that  he  was  bom  on  the 
ith  of  June,  1822.  His  parents,  whose  names  I  do  not  remember  ever  to 
ird,  were  in  humble  circumstances,  and  his  opportunities  for  education  were 
ted.  I  became  acquainted  with  him  in  Cincinnati  about  1845.  He  was 
x>on  afler,  employed  in  making  and  painting  Venetian  window-blinds.  He 
-equent  contributor  to  the  daily  papers  of  Cincinnati,  and  subsequently  en- 
contributhig  to  and  editing  a  small  weekly  called  Tfie  Shooting  Star.  He 
er  and  under  various  pseudonyms  for  the  Star,  the  Morning  Message^  the 
mpareil^  and  other  papers.  In  the  summer  of  1846  lie  went  to  Illinois,  and 
Hortcnsia  Rockwell.  Returning,  he  resided  for  several  years  on  Walnut 
ur  Lane  Seminary.  There  he  formed  the  acquaintance,  and  by  his  amiability 
ligence  won  the  friendship,  of  several  literary  gentlemen.  In  person,  mind 
ngs,  he  constantly  reminded  me  of  my  conceptions  of  Shelley.  That  physical 
s,  combined  with  intense  love  of  the  ideal  beautiful,  good  and  free,  with  its 
\  warfare  u[)on  the  dwarfing  and  deforming  conventionalities  of  life,  were  his ; 
mmitted  no  breach  of  those  conventionalities,  and  his  morals  were  irreproach- 
u  His  spirit  as  a  man,  and  his  taste  as  a  poet  were  well  expressed  in  a 
pistle  to  his  friend,  Viva  Mona,  from  which  we  quote : 

"  My  grief  I  how  many  bards  there  be 
In  that  great  class,  the  human  mocking-bird — 
Their  quills  the  very  same — alike  their  glee  I 
'Tie  well  they  mock,  else  were  they  never  beard. 
Those  mimic  tongues  do  save  them,  like  the  word 
Shibboleth  of  the  True  ;  But  O,  the  free  I 
The  free,  bold  key-notes  are  my  sonPs  loved  strains, 
The  rough,  the  rude,  or  soft,  so  they  scorn  chains/' 

IS  a  diligent  w^riter,  and  wrote  much  that  was  never  offered  for  publication, 
lerit  of  those  writing.^  I  cannot  now  8peak  advisedly.  There  was  probably 
iff,  but  certainly  some  golden  grain  that  wanted  only  the  winnowing  of  a 
ter-of-fact  critical  mind,  to  entitle  him  to  a  prominent  place  among  the  poets 
est.  His  last  contribution  to  the  press,  so  far  as  my  knowledge  goes,  was  a 
ry,  of  graphic  satirical  character,  entitled  "Tom  O'Hurry,"  published  in 
Parlor  Paper,  in  December,  1849  or  *50. 

inor's  health  having  been  for  some  time  failing--consumption  had  marked  him 
n — he  took  his  wife  and  his  young  son,  Harold  R.  Minor,  and  went  to  lUi- 
there  laid  him  down  to  rest. 

jcompanying  poems  are  from  manuscript  placed  in  my  hands  by  my  friend. 
\  evidently  some  of  his  earliest  productions,  and  do  not  do  justice  to  his 

(433) 

28 


HORACE    S.    UINOR. 


A  NYMI'I!  WAS  DANCEXG  OS  A  STREAM. 

A  XrMi'B  WHS  dancing  on  a  etrcam, 
And  sporting  w'dh  ilic  linit-el  beam 

Rj-iii  m,-rriy: 
Rhe  lov«l  the  gbinws  of  the  fun, 
And  muum'd  when  dayliglit's  gleam  was 
gone 

So  drvariljr. 

JuM  then  appeoTPd  the  ni^lit's  fair  Queen, 
The  Nymph  rt-joiccd  in  her  silver  >heen 

And  TOM  again  on  )lii'  wv-ial  wave, 
Dtutced  with  the  ray  the  Night-queen  gave, 
So  teorlutf  ty. 

A  vmce  in  the  breeic  oime  niinlitig  by 
Andcalt'd  thu  Nymph;  slif  niisuJ  litreyc 

So  feurTuliy: 
»  Why  play  the  wanton  with  the  beam 
Of  sun  and  moon,  on  t-rystal  ctrenm. 

So  cheerfully? 

"Awny!  away!  false  Nymph  away, 
Tliou  hast  no  part  in  Liiiia%  ray, 

Itrighl  Rol'»  is  thine; 
To  his  lovr-beiiin  be  tnie,  fhNe  naiad. 
Or  bitMxling  cloudu  the  stn-aui  nhall  «hade. 

No  ray  thall  tihinc." 

Tlie  Toir^  grew  hoarw,  the  hrceie  a  gale, 
Tlic  moon  wa^  hid  bi'iit-ath  a  vail, 

The  Nymph  hail  down; 
And  ki!  the  spirit  of  ihc  rill. 
Whose  shallow  all  ih.-  phu-.-  .lid  fill, 

Stood  there  uhmc: 


THE  MUSIC  OF  A  DSEAK. 

Whkn  ekwdleM  u  the  tkj  <it  m^ 

Around  a  world  al  re«t. 
When  dewilropri  ouch  the  Imir  Sgbi 

And  gild  the  flow'rcb  ocri; 


When  rephTT'ii  vow 

Li>w  Inaclilrii;!!!  iIm-  grove. 
Aim!  when  nn  more  ibe  eveaiag  IM 

Pours  Ibnh  her  DotM  of  lo*^— 

0!  tbcn'a  the  hour  whm  ataat  >*m1 
Svek^  Hotter  u-enes  iban  oar^ 

Where  fancy's  peerlcM  minatnb  BM 
In  fancy's  airj  bowers. 

My  Mu!  Iiath  been  at  (bat  tw«cl  liM 
Where  sleep's  fiunt  vuiam  ifa^ 

And  heard  a  softer  #v«Hv^ta* 
Than  when  the  lepfajr  rfgfcb 

Ah  I  mortal  tongue  can  bctw  Mfl 
ThO'ie  cympboniea,  whiefa  niB 

Too  hi;:h  for  harp  or  evrai^  bill 
The  music  of  a  drous. 

The  tremblings  of  the  iwmm  Mato 
Uy  mortal  miaaticli  pre% 

Vibrate  to  rival  tbew  in  ~ainj 
The  dream-song  toochn  hnvMl 

But  ah !  the  phantom  miniliil  Mm, 
And  dream -^larmi^  uinli.  bh^^ 

To  Kpeak  rej^ret  in  real  aighs, 
That  Ids  sweet  sinina  ^onli  ImA 


Tis  thuii  with  life— iu  Usnm 
Are  measured  by  ■  nmtg, 
Aiul  Inndly  |jm»h<-d  till  tin-  stn<Am  was  The  tliitiii<:  Ibrm  of  happioi 

n.ii-h'.—  •■  .  ■ 

Till'  ;.'rii..I.>*  Hiv'hl  know  w-ll  t-noii-.'h, 

T1j>'  ^.-ol'lrn  Itanie 
Of  Iwiiikliiijj;  .■.Iar>,  mid  rn -•tiiI  moon. 
And  iinh'Ut  sun  :tl  bi^dn-t  iK-in. 
Win'  uU  III"-  s:une. 


r  tarries  with  us  long. 

iThr  swi'Hcst  joys,  the  bri^bteMh 

That  (in  liR-'s  palhwaj  gka^ 
Oil-  like  the  harp,  whence  Imtj  J» 
Till.'  music  of  a  dnan. 


EMELINE  H.  JOHNSON. 


xiKE  H.  Brown  was  bom  at  Haverhill^  New  Hampshire,  May  seveatli,  1826| 
he  youngest  of  five  daughters  of  Jabez  and  Mary  Brown,  who  removed  finom 
lill  to  Massillon,  Ohio,  in  1828,  at  which  place  Mr.  Brown  died.  In  1836 
Irown  removed  to  Wooster,  Ohio,  starting  a  select  school,  the  first  successful 
ise  of  the  kind  in  that  place,  where  she  remained  a  teacher  for  eighteen  years. 

education  of  Emeline  was,  therefore,  acquired  entirely  at  home,  and  was  only 
9  any  good  English  school  furnishes.  Nature  had,  however,  ordained  her  a 
ad  no  educational  advantages  could  have  done  more  than  to  bring  out  and  help 
n  her  native  genius.  United  to  quick  and  tender  sensibilities  in  her  disposition, 
brilliant  wit,  and  the  keenest  perception  of  the  ridiculous.     This  latter  quality 

strong  as  sometimes  to  bring  her  under  the  displeasure  of  her  acquaintances, 
istook  for  malicious  satire  the  irresistible  relish  for  humor  which  compelled  her 
h  up  their  peculiarities  with  her  pungent  wit.  But  those  who  knew  her  well, 
hat  her  soul  was  too  lofly  and  too  passionate,  to  be  attainted  with  malice,  even 
merry  sort.  Her  spirit  was,  as  she  herself  expressed  it,  "  moulded  into  being 
be  elements  of  fire;"  and  too  early,  alas!  it  consumed  its  frail  and  beautiful 
int.  In  1845,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  she  was  married  to  Perry  Johnson  of 
iT,  and  was  left  a  widow  at  twenty-one.  From  the  hour  that  she  gave  up  the  hope 
tiusband's  life,  the  arrow  had  entered  her  own  soul.  Neither  health,  nor  gayety, 
3n  cheerfulness,  ever  returned  to  her  after  the  faithftil  but  fruitless  long  watch- 
'  his  dying  bed.     The  pale,  drooping  but  beautiful,  face  of  the  heart-stricken 

will  never  be  forgotten  by  those  who  knew  her  then,  for  the  hopelessness  of 
3le  grief  was  too  plainly  imprinted  upon  it  to  be  mistaken,  or  afterward  forgot- 
j  nder  this  weight  of  sorrow  the  life-chords  gradually  stretched  and  parted ; 

the  eighth  of  April,  1850,  the  long  weariness  was  over,  the  grieving  spirit  set 
by  death.     One  child,  a  beautiful  boy,  was  lef^  but  only  for  a  little  season,  for 

than  a  year  from  her  death,  the  orphaned  infant  was  laid  beside  his  parents. 

)  the  history,  in  simple  terms,  of  one  bom  with  gifts  which  might  have  graced 

)lest  circles  of  the  witty  and  the  wise :  in  these  few  words  no  image  can  be  given 

thrilling  heart-life  which  was  experienced  by  the  patient  and  enduring  spirit 

thought  of  being  a  "  literary  woman  "  was  ever  entertained  by  the  subject  of 

etch.     Her  girlhood  was  passed,  as  girlhood  usually  is,  in  mere  dreamings  of 

ure ;  and  when  tlie  stern  realities  of  life  had  come  upon  her,  the  terrible  and 

g  meaning  left  her  little  leisure  for  the  use  of  the  pen,  even  had  her  mind  not 

}  deeply  absorbed  in  her  love  and  her  sorrow,  as  it  was.     The  last  productions  of 

1,  written  from  her  sick-bed,  appeared  in  the  ^^  American  Courier^  published  in 

elphia,  under  the  signature  of  "Lilly  Layton,"  and  their  identity  was  not 

until  after  her  death,  when  the  original  copies  were  found  in  her  portfolio. 

(435) 


43G  EMELINK    H.   JOHNSON.  [IM*> 

Out  of  seventy  or  eighty  pages,  a  few  selections  have  been  madev  IhMn  ber  ma^ 
cent  and  most  mchincholj  pieces.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  to  lew  of  her  cvi 
gayer  and  more  sparkling  verses  have  been  preserved :  but  it  is  in  a  high  dtyu  i 
infactory  to  be  able  to  record  even  this  slight  testimony  of  one  who  was  noc  ad| 
poet  and  a  wit,  but  a  gentle  daughter,  a  loving  friend,  a  devoted  wife  and 
whose  light  went  out  so  early  that  tlie  world  luid  scarcely  seen  it  ere  it  was  e: 


MY  CHILD. 


And  yet  I  often  gmse  on  lliee*  and  ni 

strive  to  trace 
A  lost,  yet  worshiped  image,  in  thj  pi 

unshadowed  face. 
Tliy  smile,  though  soft  and  wilchia^  i 

thine  eyes,  tliough  large  and  bc^ 
Have  not  the  power  of  thoae  thai  ■ 

my  heart  one  sphere  of  lighL 


Tiiou*RT  weary,  and  thy  little  head  hath 

dnK)[iod  u(M>n  my  arm ; 
The   mirth   is   hushed   u|)on  thy  lips,  so 

bri;;ht  iuid  n*il  and  warm ; 
1  meet  no  more  tlio  Ha>lies  of  thy  large 

and  dn'ainy  eves, 
Tlie  .lark  fringe  like  a  -liadow,  o'er  U.cirT^'e  smile  that  wu  mj  beia^. 

1  ,.  !         forever  hid, 

stiirrv  deenne>>  lies.  :  ^ ,  , 

.m*       I    '   .1  .11         r    1        «i     Those  irlorious  oriw  are  daric 

Tis  when   the   ;r<'ntle  dew  of  sleep  thy  ^  ^    ... 

,                    1- 1     1  neatli  the  cotnn-lid, 

droonin<;  eveluls  <'lo>o,  *,,.,.         .       .           ..    .     .    ^ 

A    1   .1      1                    11  «»»^.    «i^  And  all  the  beanung  iiopes  liedeadvwh 

And   the   long   niven    hishes  sweep   tliCi                ,,    ,        .     .    /^ 

I ,       .        1     I     .. I         earthly  love  had  given ; 

bloommg  clnH»k  of  rose,  I                   f        ...                 • 

<u^       <.         .1      r     1      1  I     I     .1    :  Thou  art  the  only  jot  that  coMet  bciai 

WTien  from    thy  forelnMid  carelessly  the  ,              ,  •/ 

.....  ,         my  heart  and  Heaveii. 

wavy  liair  is  thntwn,  I  -^ 

And  thy  little  heart  so  liaplesslv  is  beat- 
ing on  my  own  ;  ^"^<>  »^"'  Future's  dim  domalB  mj  ph 
•Tis  ihen  AftlM-tion's  swt-^-test  thrills  Ufi^'s  "»?  *"'"rt  goes  forth, 

«|uiv<Ting  pulsi.^  .wet|),  |-^"«'  ^•'•"n»'*  *««•  **>««  «  P^««  ■■■^^ 

And  love  my  sot\en«'.l  b*ing  fills,  so  wild!         glorious  of  the  earth: 

an<l  pun*  and  drep,  i  ^  ^ni.-iime>  think  I  can  dinen  Ac  |Nl 

I  tivnihle  lest  my  erring  heart,  of  ot In t  i><*,  even  now, 

lii-s  bereft,  P^  intellertual  greatneas  oo  ihgr 

Shoul.l  make  an  i<lol  of  the  child  Go<i  in'  "'"'"^^J  bmw.— 

las  meiry  left  :  ^^'l  ^'^  thy  d;iwning  mind 

niti'il  I  ask  for  tliee. 
My  lovely  boy,  my  only  child,  my  only  Kn»  the  Future's  dim  u 

ho(>e  art  thou !  |  |iatli  to  glory  be, 

Tlirn*  bfiuns  a  nmnly  >pirit  on  thy  swert-  The  winds  will  wail  a 
I  ly  dawning  brow.  wild  grus»  shall  wave, 

I     And  lart;**,  and  soft,  and  l>«'autitul  an'  tliv  .Vnd  nianv  a  time  the  sweet 
\  dark  hazel  t^t's,  shall  bI«iom  upon  mj  gfava 

A  w«-altli  of  unawakcnifil  thought  in  tlirir  Fur  one,  whose  deepest, 
dt'<*)i  shaduw  lies.  |         thee  and  me  i  aa 


1840-50.] 


EMELINE   H.   JOHNSON. 


437 


With  love  for  u&  unfading  still,  dwells  far 

away  in  Heaven. 
Those  eyes  are  ever  in  my  heart,  drawing 

my  soul  to  him : 
Their  glance  of  love  grows  brighter  still, 

as  the  lamp  of  life  grows  dim. 
Far,  far  beyond  the  glowing  stars,  in  the 

bright  world  above. 
We  will  together  watch  o'er  thee,  and 

guard  thee  with  our  love; 
And  though  alone,  in  the  dark  world,  a 

strong  unfailing  arm, 
Will  be  forever  round  thee  thrown,  defend- 
ing thee  from  harm. 
Thy  feeble  steps  will  be  upheld,  that  tread 

earth's  lonely  wild, 
*The  Father  of  the  fatherless"  will  guard 

my  only  child. 


THE  DAUGHTER'S  REQUEST. 

Father,  they  tell  me  to-night  thoult  bring 

A  bride  to  our  home  of  sadness ; 
And  the  halls  of  mourning  again  will  ring 

With  the  sounds  of  mirth  and  gladness. 
Father,  my  heart  is  sad — and  wild — 

With  anguish  my  brain  is  reeling  I 
Kay!   frown  not  thus  on  thy  motherless 
child. 

But  bear  with  this  burst  of  feeling. 

Thou  know'st  on  my  mother's  grave,  the 
flowers 

Of  a  year,  have  scarcely  started ; 
Then  chide  me  not,  if  in  this  sad  hour, 

I  weep  for  the  dear  departed. 
Oh,  bear  with  the  gushing  tears  awhile. 

For  my  heart  is  oppressed  with  sadness ; 
And  then  to-night,  I  will  strive  to  smile. 

And  wear  a  look  of  gkdness. 

Father ! — a  boon  I  ask — 'tis  all 
Thou  mayst  grant  to  a  heart  thus  riven ; 


'Tis  the  image  that  hangs  in  yonder  hall. 
Of  her  who  is  now  in  Heaven  I 

That  beautiful  face  so  sweetly  mild. 
With  its  look  of  gentle  meekness ; 

Hath  a  power  o'er  the  heart  of  her  erring 
child, 
In  its  wildest  moments  of  weakness. 

And    to-night,    when    those    maddening 
thoughts  arise. 

Which  my  spirit  of  peace  is  robbing, 
I  will  gaze  in  the  depths  of  those  sofl  dark 
eyes. 

Till  it  stilleth  my  heart's  wild  throbbing! 
They  tell  me  she  thou  wilt  bring  to-night, 

Is  fair  as  a  poet's  vision ; 
A  creature  with  form  and  face  as  bright. 

As  they  who  people  Elysium. 

But  it  swelleth  my  heart  with  painful  thrill, 

That  the  image  of  another. 
Ere  her  kiss  is  cold  on  our  lips,  should  fill 

The  place  of  my  sainted  mother. 
But  grant  me  the  boon  I  ask,  and  though 

Each  fiber  with  grief  is  aching. 
Thy  beautiful  bride  shall  never  know 

That  the  heart  of  thy  child  is  breaking! 


AFFECTION  BEYOND  THE  GRAYK 

The  dead!  the  dead!  will  they  forget  to 
love  us. 

In  the  far  spirit-land  beyond  the  skies? 
Do  they  not  keep  an  angel  guard  above  us. 

Watching  us  ever  with    their   starry 
eyes? 
And  is  not  love  inseparate  from  the  spirit, 

Our  being's  light,  our  life's  vitality; 
And  will  it  not  too  with  the  soul  inherit 

The  blessed  gifl  of  immortality? 

In  yonder  room,  from  which  the  daylight 
dying, 
Leaveth  a  glory  with  its  parting  breath; 


438 


EMELINK   H.   JOHNSON. 


[1 


A  wife  bends  o'er  a  couch  whereon  is  lying 
Her  young  heart's  idol  stricken  down  to 
death. 
Vain  seems  that  suffering  love,  for  what 
availeth 
The  strength  of  all  its  wild  intensity. 
Striving  with  death,  when  death  at  length 
prevaileth, 
An<l  strikes  his  heart  with  life's  worst 
agony? 

Yet  in  that  darkened  soul  one  hope  is 
cherished, 
A  starlight  gleaming  through  the  mid- 
night sky; 
And  tliat  hope  whispers,  though  the  heart 
hath  finished, 
The  love  within  tliat  heart  can  never 
die! 
Sees   not    thine   inner  sight    yon    spirit 
bending 
Amid  the  glory  of  the  world  above? 
That  spirit,  with  thine  own  forever  blend- 
ing. 
Will  guide  and  guard  thee  with  a  death- 
less love. 

Believes  that  mother*s  heart,  whose  all  ia 
centered 
In  the  child  fading  out  of  life,  tliat  now 
llcr  i>ain  hath  no  reward,  since  death  luith 
entered, 
And   placed  his  signet  on   tliat  angel 
brow? 
Amid  that  very  gloom  her  soul  is  catching 

A  glory  which  it  never  knew  before, 
She    sceth    with    her    heart    above    her 
watching, 
llcr  own  bright  guardian  angel  ever- 
more! 

And  that  pale  mourning  mother's  heart  is 

te<*ming  • 

^Yith  a  ^lill  deoprr,  purer  tenderness; 

Those    eyes    forever    in    her    soul    are 

gliMuning, 

Hallowing  all  its  grief  with  holiness. 


And  hath  that  child  cMt  off  ibe  ha 
ever, 
That  mother^s  heart  with  its  esk 
love? 
If  so,  then  death  hath  power  iad 
sever 
The  strongest  bondi  that  drawoa 
above! 

Oh,  vain  were  all  the  heait*i  n 
yeanling, 
And  vain  were  life,  and  vaia 
memory's  trust. 
Did  the  sours    life^  the  feve  wi 
burning, 
Die  with  the  chj,  and  perkh  I 
dust! 
Ah,  no!  one  thought  eaith*a  lomt} 
way  cheereth, 
Bidding  the  darkness  fron  an 
flee; 
The  loved  in  life,  whom  death  tk 
endeareth. 
Dearest  shall  be  throagfa  aD 


THE  VOWS. 

Flitting  memories  o*er 
Like  tliosc  half-loi^golleB 
'\Vlii«-h  we  catch  in 
llringing  in  their  flight  the 
Of  wild  binls  and  gushing 
Ami  a  vision  stmngvlj  biighl 
Flits  U*fore  my  fancy's  di^bL 


Twas  the  pleasant 
Wlien  the  year  is  in  its 
And  the  silvery-fooled 
1^11  len  with  the  breath  of 
Thi\)Ugh  a  maze  of  goigimi  Ij^ 
Flinging  music  in  their  fl%h^ 
Glide  in  dr      li 


1840-50.] 


EMELINE    H.    JOHNSON. 


439 


Bringing  o'er  the  heart  a  throng 
Of  wild  memories,  sad  and  sweet, 
While  the  hidden  pulses  heat 
With  a  low  and  mournful  tone, 
For  retumless  pleasures  gone. 

*Twa5  a  brilliant  night  in  June, 

And  the  mild  and  placid  moon, 

From  her  starry  girted  height, 

Poured  a  flood  of  love-like  light. 

Over  hill  and  vale  and  stream, 

And  the  stars  beamed  sadlj  bright. 

As  the  vision  of  a  dream. 

Two  young  lovely  beings  stood 

In  the  margin  of  a  wood: 

One  a  youth  of  seventeen, 

With  an  eye  as  flasihing  keen 

As  the  eagle's  in  its  flight. 

When  it  drinks  the  blazing  light; — 

And  he  bent  an  earnest  gaze. 

On  the  young  and  girlish  face 

Turning  upward  to  his  own, 

O'er  which  love's  soft  light  was  thrown ; 

She  a  girl  of  azure  eyes, 

Dark  and  dreamy  as  the  skies. 

One  white  arm,  all  round  and  bare, 

Rested  in  his  glossy  hair, 

And  as  ai*m  and  ringlet  met, 

Gleaming  snow  entwined  with  jet. 

One  dark,  soil  and  silken  curl 

Lay  upon  her  neck  of  pearl. 

Mingling,  in  a  mazy  fold. 

With  her  locks  of  wavy  gold. 

Let  us  listen  to  their  vows : 

"By  the  dew  upon  the  boughs. 
By  the  countless  stars,  that  gleam 
Yonder,  in  the  silver  stream, 
By  the  lilies  bending  there ; 
As  thine  own  young  forehead  fair; 
By  the  violet-cups  that  lave 
Their  blue  petals  in  the  wave; 
By  the  love-inspiring  light, 


Pouring  down  from  yonder  height; 
By  the  dark  blue  midnight  skies; 
Deep  as  thine  own  azure  eyes; 
By  the  loveliest  things  we  see, 
Thee  I  love,  and  only  thee!" 

"Ah!  that  dew  at  dawning  day. 
From  the  bough  will  melt  away; 
And  those  stars,  which  beam  so  bright. 
And  that  love-inspiring  light ; 
All  must  vanish  with  the  night. 
And  the  flowers  will  droop  and  die, 
Ere  another  day  glides  by ; 
And  those  skies  so  darkly  blue. 
In  an  hour  will  change  their  hue. 
Even  now  these  things  decay, 
Where's  thy  love  then? — paa&'d  away!" 

"  By  thine  own  sweet  ruby  lips 
By  thy  cheek  whose  hues  eclipse. 
In  their  deep  and  changing  glow. 
Sunset's  rosy  gleam  on  snow, 
By  thy  bright  hair's  wavy  curl. 
By  thy  spotless  brow  of  pearl. 
By  thy  deep  and  well-like  eyes 
Where  a  world  of  passion  lies, 
Do  I  bend  before  thy  shrine ; 
And  till  these  shall  cease  to  shine^ 
I  am  thine,  and  only  thine!" 

"Ah!  these  too,  must  soon  decay, 

Where's  thy  love  then? — pass'd  away!" 

"By  the  love  that  dwells  the  while, 

In  thine  own  bewitching  smile. 

By  affection's  spnngs,  that  deep 

Hidden  in  thy  bosom  sleep, 

By  the  love  that  spurns  control. 

Deep  within  thine  inmost  soul, 

By  the  wild  idolatry. 

Thy  young  heart  doth  bear  to  me, 

By  this  then,  and  this  alone, 

I  am  heart  and  soul  thine  own!" 

"These  can  never  pass  away 

I  am  thine,  and  thine  for  aye!" 


ABBY  ALLIN  CURTISS. 


Abbt  Allin  Ccrtiss  is  the  dAughter  of  Daniel  and  Betsey  Allin,  and  tiM 
est  of  four  children.  Her  father  was  long  a  sea-captain,  in  the  Ibreiga  tradB;  i 
home  being  at  Providence,  Uhodc  Island,  lleniigning  his  profewioiiv  ripiM  Al 
pui-chased  and  settled  uix>n  n  farm,  in  Pomfret,  Cunnecticut,  where,  SepCembcr  Mm 
1H20,  Abby  was  bom.  Miss  Allin's  earliest  efforts  in  poetry  were  made  in  1841 
pathetic  ballad,  **Takc  me  Home  to  Die,"  her  first  piece,  was  pubUabed  m  Sm 
Gazette.  In  1850,  James  Monroe  &  Comiumj,  Boston,  MassachnsetUi  pabliAri 
volume  of  her  poems,  entitliHl  ^^Home  Ballads,**  which  met  with  a  plraiaiit 
and  enjoyed  a  full  average  popuhirity  of  joung  authors,  with  the  lilerary  pobfib 

In  September,  1852,  MLss  Allin  was  married  to  Daniel  S.  Cnrtiss,  Fj 
then  of  Chicago,  Illinois,  and  soon  after  removed  with  him  to  Maiiison,  Wi 
where  thej  engaged  in  agricultural  pursuits — which  is  their  present  plaee  of 


THE  HEART'S  CONFLICT. 


There  is  no  coldness  in  mj  heart  to  thee- 

Thy  presence  thrills 
l^Ie  with  an  added  sense  of  ecstacy ; 

I  would  be  still, 
And  mutely  sit  thus  at  thy  side — 

Aye,  at  thy  feet ; 

And  ui>ward  ^ize 
Into  thy  deep,  mysterious  eyes, 

"Whose  softened  rays — 
Of  i»ity,  sooth,  or  ten<lemess — 

Have  power  to  bless  ! 
Ex:ilt«^l  by  my  love's  excess. 

It  is  most  meet. 

That  at  thy  feet, 
Chid  in  swH't  love's  humblest  guise, 

I  thus  should  >it. 

Anil  watfh  thiiir  eves 

Tln'ir  life  riiiit ; 
Wlio-if  niys,  dntpprd  df)wn, 
Fall  on  me  lik<*  a  crown ! 


Aye,  hiy  thy  hand  apon  mj 
And  gather  me  lo  thj  heart; 

I  would  no  longer  be  ahme 
From  thee  a  thing  apart : 

On  this  poor  earth  a  pilgrim 

From  whom  all    love    hath 
gone! 

Ijovc  ?  aye,  life — for  love  is  Sfe! 

Wliat  a  |K)or,  petty,  canai 
Of  wonis,  we  gathei^* 
Of  forms,  the  rathei^* 

Thus  manacling  a  free4ioni  tfii^f ; 

For  love  is  life,  and  life  i 


( 


The    world!      What    k 

pass; 
Like  the  dead  image  on  the 
Like  the  s|KMit  shaidows  on  the 

Tlut  m:i>tery  is  thine  own ! 
Swef't,  press  thy  lips  again  lo 

I  am  thine. 

And  thine  alone  I 
440) 


it?     iMi 


0.] 


ABBY   ALLIN   CURTISS. 


441 


heart,  why  tremblest  so  ?    Thou  lov- 

estl 
era  have  loved  before ; 
whole  sweet  bondage  that  thou  prov- 

St, 

h  this  extent  no  more  I 

though  man  presumptouslj, 

on  thee  reprovingly — 

g  glances  pityingly ; 

3  to,  thou  whited  wall  I " 

hy  pity  otherwhere ; 

am  I  that  thou  shouldst  dare 

)roach  me  with  my  thrall  ? 

in !     O  thou  most  inhuman, 
i  weaknesses  of  woman  ! 
•st  thou  robe  thyself  in  pride, 
g  marah  in  my  cup — 
ring  thy  garments  up, 
sing  on  the  other  side  ? 

strife,  the  struggle  deep  I 
a  weary,  I  would  rest ; 
e  rock  myself  asleep, 
the  heavings  of  thy  breast ; 
the  innocence  of  youth, 
the  purity  of  truth ; 
me  then,  all  undefiled — 
red  in  thy  watchful  arms, 
x)m  all  this  life's  alarms— 
t  me,  even  as  a  child  1 

high-priest  of  the  inner  shrine, 
ence,  the  realm  is  thine  I 
le  thou  the  choice — 
'  still  small  voice — 
round  about  me  everywhere, 
Lh  thee,  true  heart  lean  to  prayer, 
refuge  and  repose ; 
'  vain  refuges  of  lies, 
:hou  thine  eye^ — 
jpward  to  the  skies, 
T  soul,  and  find  a  close ! 


WORK  WITH  A  WILL. 

Pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a  will, 

Labor  itself  is  pleasure  and  health ; 
Man  is  a  creature  of  infinite  skill. 

And  contentment  is  seldom  the  handmaid 
of  wealth. 
Life  is  at  best  but  a  rugged  ascent, 

For  ever,  and  ever,  and  ever  up  hill ; 
Yet  nothing  is  gained  to  a  man  by  dissent, 

Then  pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a 
wiUl 

Pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a  will, 

Grod  is  the  Master  urging  us  on  ; 
Idleness  bringeth  us  trouble  and  ill, 

Labor  itself  is  happiness  won ! 
Work  with  the  heart,  and  work  with  the 
brain, 
Work  with  the  hands,  and  work  with  the 
will ; 
Step  after  step  we  conquer  the  plain, 
Then  pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a 
will! 

Pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a  will, 

Ko  one  can  tell  the  length  of  his  stay ; 
Already  the  sun  is  climbing  the  hill ! 

Up  and  be  doing,  while  it  is  day  ! 
Never  despair,  though  much  must  be  done ; 

A  river  at  birth  is  naught  but  a  rill ; 
Another  may  finish  what  yon  have  begun. 

Then  pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a 
will! 

Pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a  will. 

Let  not  a  drone-bee  live  in  the  hive  ; 
The  world  driveth  on  like  a  busy  old  mill, 
And  each  with  our  web  we  busily  strive. 
Our  Father,  who  scanneth  the  ocean  and 
land, 
This  beautiful  world  of  valley  and  hill, 
Seeth  naught  but  a  six  days'  work  of  his 
hand — 
Then  pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a 
will! 


THOMAS  W.  HOIT. 


Thomas  W.  IIoit  ia  a  tfon  of  New  Hampshire,  who  hM  bean  for 
years  ii  prosfM^rous  nu'n.'haiU  in  St.  Louis,  ^lissouri.  In  early  life  he  ksmed  iW  m 
and  iny^itery  of  printing  newspap<'n(,  and  was.  for  a  abort  time,  as  editor.  lie  la 
writtrn  sc^vcral  long  |NMMns  for  d|)eeial  oi'cusion^,  which  are  well  Mistaiaed*  sad  ii  fk 
autlior  of  many  ^ahort  ones  which  have  the  merit  that  finds  favor  with  ihoiie  wha  wiak 
editorial  snssors— directness  and  Aweetnesji.  Mr.  IIoit  \a  now  about  Ibftjryevvd 
acre.  Ilr  has  practice<l  prose  writing  with  sua*ess,  and  liaA  rrpatatioB 
Most  of  his  poems  have  been  puUiehcd  in  St.  Ix>uis  magazines  and 


A  roquette*ii  dimples,  and  a  flmkj'i 
CUKE  KOII  .^(WNDAU  ^^„  j^n^j.^  ,,rains,  an  hideoo*  hjdim'* 

Take  of  the  toad  the  brains  and  ear-wax;'^  **«''»^-^-''  ^""«"'  and  a  wiU  boa^ 
\^j.\^^„  I A  |Hileent*s  cxlor,  and  a  fthao^baTi 

The  spider's  fang,  the  adder's  |K.i.nn  sting;!  ("""»**"*•*  ^»"^  >**^*  ingredient,  I  trail, 
A  lizard's  eve-balls,  tarantula's  tongue ;       !  •"^''^'^^  ^*""  ^  coxcomb  always  giTea  - 
llie    chign's  eggs,  and  fire-flv's   maggot'^*"'    burning    froth    from    "   ^ 

^  nn  J  -  ^'^      ;  maW, 

rvr    "^    .  7    •  •  111.       II  ;  A  dragon  8  blood,  s 

Of  newt  the  ins  armadillos  g:ill;  /.,         i      .     i^  « 

,,,.,.,         ,        ,  r  ,  C  hamehxHi  a  thorax,  monaas 

L0i'k(*hat4*rs  irnih,  and  scorpion,  sting  and    .         ,  -i        • 

^  '  ^  A  moth,  a  weevil,  and  an 

Two'Jaiz/ards*  beaks,  first  hardeiied  in  the  ^"•^    '**^'    cauldron    two 


i 


lin*  ; 


tling« 
And   fmi   the  contents   witb 


Four  t'anii>hcd  s<*rpents  n'ady  to  expire  ;    '. 

A  living  a>j»,  which  Min»  the  fang  includes;'  ^>n}?» 

A  >ala.H;..ul..r-s  flui.l  that  .xi..!.-. ;  «''■••  *«■"•  ""'  J^^^r  "^  '^«^'* 

A  «.'.»'.•.  i.n.lK.s.  is.  ana  a  vii„.|'s  ..vo< ;  "'"  l.loo.l-^tainl.a  dagger  let  the 

F<»iir  printrd  scandals,  thn*f  il<'t<'«'ti"d  lies;  *'  * 

A  UhI.  V  l..a.l.  a  I.humV  palat.-  .lri.-.l ,        ^^J'P'X   «'"*    ™*">™    »»   ^ 

Ami   t<*ii  imi><{uito('s'  Mumts  in  eitrychnine 

tried; 
A  \va^|)*s  >tiietto;  Hying-dragon's  ears: 
Tli»'-«'  *;ilnrjiif  wiih  alligator's  tt-ars — 
With  :tii'(i|Mil  then  siininer  in  the  skull 
Of  :i  l.l:i.k  ;i|M';    till  tl.r  vr--rl    full — 


tongue, 
Mi>ist('iH'f I  with  tears  (rom  dandcfad  vi 

wrung; 
And  should  one  do!se  of  tbis 

fail. 
And  the  dire  venom  of  bis  toagae 


K«(Iii..'  tlH.ni:t^s-»'"l  a.ldone  s.-rei^-h-owl's  •'""'t  "'^'^  "  section  of  the  sbadcfO^A 
I- VI*:  SliDuhl  the  «'oiicocted  pofawns  fialaf 

Till-  iii:iiii-*  iiiiigu'-.  cantliaridr^  iln*  fly;        The  last  named  virtis,  added,  will  bs 


1850-60.] 


THOMAS    W.   HOIT. 


443 


ODE  TO  WASHINGTON. 

Thet  hold  a  taper  to  the  sun, 

And  hoast  its  glories  near  his  shrine — 
Who  claim  the  palm  for  victories  won, 

Or  regal  fame,  compare  with  thine  I 

The  gild  of  pride,  the  pomp  of  power, 
Like  glittering  insects,  in  thj  rays, 

Dissolve  and  vanish  in  an  hour — 

But  fame  prolongs  thy  lengthened  days. 

Heroes  and  kings  may  deck  the  page 
With  storied  deeds,  and  trophies  bright. 

And  laureled  bards  in  phrenzy  rage. 
Their  transient  honors  to  requite. 

But  fiime  herself  adorns  thy  brow 
With  honors  time  can  never  fade, 

And  truth,  eternally,  as  now. 

Shines  forth  in  thy  pure  soul  arrayed. 

Why  doth  the  sage  thy  deeds  indite. 
And  gather  trophies  round  thy  tomb? 

Why  weave  his  glowing  chaplet  bright, 
To  deck  that  paradise  of  gloom  ? 

What  magic  spell  asserts  its  sway, 
To  kindle  in  the  souls  of  men 

Blessed  visions  of  a  brighter  day  ? 
Ah!  all  shall  meet  as  brothers  then  ! 

The  golden  epoch  shall  return, 
Peace  guide  the  nations  as  of  yore, 

When  man  thy  mission  shall  discern. 
And  at  the  shrine  of  truth  adore. 

Look  down.  Immortal !  from  thy  car — 
The  chariot  of  the  sun  restrain ! 

I  hear  thee  whisper  from  afar, 
The  peaceful  age  shall  come  again. 


THE  TRUE  WOMAN. 

I  LOVE  the  woman !  all  her  joy  is  home ; 
Her  constant  nature  disinclines  to  roam : 
Her  love  and  joy  the  clouds  of  care  dispel, 
And  angel  hope,  and  peace,  securely  dwell: 
Our  rising  country's  hope  ita  tributes  bring, 
Henoe  all  our  power,  and  £une,  and  glory 
spring. 

I  love  the  woman  I  for  the  starving  poor 
Gro  satisfied  and  cheerful  from  her  door; 
Her  generous  nature  shuns  the  pomp  of  ai-t 
The  social  virtues  cluster  round  her  heart, — 
Unchanged  as  maiden,  widow,  or  as  wife, 
Graced  with  the  bland  amenities  of  life. 

I  love  the  woman  I  in  her  tranquil  soul 
Bright  visions  of  the  future  gently  roll, 
One  manly  heart,  reliant  and  alone, 
BespoDsive  knows  her  pleasure's  all  his 

own. 
So  virtue  crowns  their  days,  renewed  again 
To  life  immortal,  in  their  smiling  train. 

I  love  the  woman  I  for  the  smiling  throng 
Of  little  loved  ones  listen  to  her  song. 
And,  charmed  to  silence,  turn  their  laugh- 
ing eyes. 
To  mark  her  smiles  of  love,  with  sweet 

surprise. 
And  at  the  end  of  each  melodious  strain, 
Demand  the  song,  and  wake  her  smiles 
again. 

I  love  the  woman !  for  no  sland'rous  tongue 
Condemns  her  blushing  cheek  with  bor- 
rowed wrong ; 
No  tell-tale  nymphs  dilate  upon  her  fame, 
Nor  preface  scandals  with  her  honored 

name; 
All  pay  her  homage  who  delight  to  share 
Her  blissful  home,  or  copy  virtue  there. 


WILLIAM   HUBBARD. 


Born  at  the  quiet  rural  villac^  of  West  Liberty,  on  the  aoathem  border  of 
county,  Ohio,  on  the  M^vt^nteenth  May,  1821,  AVilliam  Hubbard  inherited  nodi 
an  hon(*st  name,  a  healthy  constitution,  and  a  vigorous  intellect.  Deprivi 
father  M  care  at  an  early  age,  he  grew  up  under  the  guidance  of  a  widowed 
whose  exemplary  virtues,  strong  good  sense,  and  patient  industryi  left  their  im| 
the  mind  and  character  of  her  son. 

At  that  early  day,  the  ^  log  school-house  **  furnished  almost  the  odIj  meeiw 
cation ;  but  with  this,  and  tliat  home  training  which  every  mother  should  be 
tent  to  afford,  William  became  well  versed  in  all  the  nsual  branches  of  en 
education. 

Early  in  the  year  1832  he  took  his  first  lessons  in  the  ^  art  preservatiTe  of  t 
the  printing  business — in  the  ofiice  of  the  Logan  Gazette^  a  newspaper  thei 
and  conducted,  in  Bellefontaine,  by  Hiram  B.  Strother.  Here  he  served  with 
skill,  and  industry  for  seven  years,  when,  early  in  1839,  he  became  the  |inb& 
the  paper,  and  continued  as  such  for  a  period  of  six  months.  During  aD  thi 
as,  indeed,  in  the  years  which  followed,  he  employed  his  leiAire  moBenli 
veloping  his  literary  taste,  and  in  the  profound  study  of  the  best  writers  of  pv 
poetry. 

In  the  summer  of  1841  he  began  his  aireer  as  a  school  teacher  in 
his  native  village,  in  one  of  the  ever-memonihle,  universal  **  people'i 
times,  the  ^  log  school-house.^  In  this  usc^ful,  but  perplexing  and  lU-paid  e 
he  c*ontinued  most  of  his  time,  until  the  fall  of  1845.  Meantime,  in  1841,  he 
tennined  to  study  the  profession  of  law,  and  fur  that  purpose  became  the  ■!■ 
Denjaniin  F.  St^mton  and  William  I^wrence,  attorneys  in  Bellefbotttne.  His 
were  somewhat  interrupted  by  his  duties  a-^  teacher,  and  by  his  literaiy  prntm 
as  he  had  made  it  a  rule  of  his  life  never  to  do  any  thing  imperfectly,  he  was 
mitteil  to  the  bar  until  he  lui^l  1)ecome  a  thoroughly  well-read  lawyer,  in  the  jes 

III  the  full  of  1845,  Mr.  Hubbard  was  editor  of  The  Logan  GaxetU^  and,  ■ 
bc(*()niing  owner  of  the  press,  he  has  ever  since  been  its  editor  and  proprieiur* 
|)uliti(*al  writer  he  has  a  wide  and  deservedly  high  n-putation.  NoCwithstaad 
diiiics  as  an  editor,  he  was  elected  Prosi.»cuting  Attorney  of  Logan  eouiSj,  ■ 
and  :i;x:iin  in  1850,  and,  in  that  capacity,  served  with  skill  and  ability  far  Im 
whi-n  he  declined  a  renjlection. 

In  1K58  Mr.  Iluhhard  rec<'ive<l  the  nomination  of  the  political  partj  to  wl 

iH'Ion^Sf  us  its  candidate  for  (\mgress.     He  could  scan*ely  hope  for  imnrc—  ii 

trict  }ar;:e1y  op{)<>sed  to  him  ))oIiticalIy,  but  tholl^^h  defeated,  his  vote  was  la^ 

pliiiieiitiiry.     In  debutes  and  addresses  in  that  cimvasi*,  he  added  mnch  ID  i 

n'piitauoii  as  an  orator. 

(444) 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    UUBBARD. 


446 


Early  love  of  books,  a  warm  imagination,  cultivated  by  study  and  by  the  beautiful 
scenery  of  the  fertile  valley  of  the  Mad  river,  with  a  heart  full  of  pathos  and  of  ardor, 
all  contributed  to 

"  Wake  to  ecstany  the  living  lyre," 

and  turn  his  thoughts  into  eloquence  and  poetr}\  His  first  published  poetical  produ^c- 
tion  was  in  January,  1838.  We  have  never  known  a  writer  of  so  much  genius  with 
80  little  ostentation.  He  has  never  sought,  but  always  shunned  notoriety.  His  poet- 
ical writings,  if  collected,  would  make  a  good  sized  volume. 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  SIMON  KENTON. 

Tread  lightly,  this  is  hallowed  ground ! — 

tread  reverently  here ! 
Beneath  this  sod  in  silence  sleeps  the  brave 

old  Pioneer, 
Who  never  quailed  in  darkest  hour,  whose 

heart  ne'er  felt  a  fear — 
Tread  lightly,  then,  and  here  bestow  the 

tribute  of  a  tear. 

Ah!  can  this  be  the  spot  where  sleeps  the 

bravest  of  the  brave  ? 
Is  this  rude  slab  the  only  mark  of  Simon 

Kenton's  grave  ? 
These  fallen  palings,  are  they  all  his  in- 

grate  country  gave 
To  one  who  periled  life  so  oft  her  homes 

and  hearths  to  save  ? 

Long,  long  ago,  in  manhood's  prime,  when 

all  was  wild  and  dre^r. 
They  bound  the  hero  to  a  stake  of  savage 

torment  here — 
Unblanched  and  firm,  his  soul  disdained  a 

supplicating  tear — 
A  thousand  demons  could  not  daunt  the 

Western  Pioneer. 

^ey  tied  his  hands,  Mazeppa-like,  and  set 

him  on  a  steed, 
Wild  as  the  mustang  of  the  plains — ^and, 

mocking,  bade  him  speed ! 


Then  sped  that  courser  like  the  wind,  of 

curb  and  bit  all  freed. 
O'er  flood  and   field,  o'er  hill  and  dale* 

wherever  chance  might  lead ! 

But  firm  in  every  trial-hour,  his  heart  was 

still  the  same — 
Still    throbbed    with   self-reliance   strong 

which  danger  could  not  tame. 
Yet  fought  he  not  that  he  might  win  the 

splendor  of  a  fame, 
Which  would,  in  ages  long  to  come,  shed 

glory  on  his  name ; 

He  fought  because  he  loved  the  land  where 
first  he  saw  the  light — 

He  fought  because  his  soul  was  true,  and 
idolized  the  right ; 

And  ever  in  the  fiercest  and  the  thickest 
of  the  fight 

The  dusk  and  swarthy  foeman  felt  the  ter- 
ror of  his  might 

Are  these  his  countrymen  who  dwell  where 
long  aoro  he  came  ? 

Are  these  the  men  who  glory  in  the  splen- 
dor of  his  fame  ? 

And  can  they  not  afford  to  give  a  stone  to 
bear  his  name  ? 

0  never  let  them  more  presume  the  hero's 
dust  to  claim ! 


446 


WILLIAM    HUBUARD. 


[Vm 


THE  HOUR  OF  TRIUMriL 

"With  the  (Wkoi^t  cloud  that  ever 

Ciu<l  its  shadow  on  my  way. 
Always  came  u  ^leam  of  sunshine, 

With  its  vivifyinjj  ray ; 
To  th«»  lM»wcd  and  hn»kcn  spirit 

Kv<»r  thus  it  seemed  to  say : 
"  Th«Tu  will  come  a  day  of  sunlijrht, 

When  the  cloud  luis  piissed  awuy.^ 

And  that  promise  ne'er  wits  broken — 

Liirht  has  always  i*ome  at  last ! 
And  it  ever  shone  the  clearer 

For  the  darkness  that  was  past 
Thus  was  tAUprht  to  me  a  lesson 

Which  1  never  will  forpet — 
**  Always  ho|)e  the  hour  of  triumph, 

It  has  never  failed  thee  yet  I 


f » 


Men  mav  hate  me  and  condemn  me 

And  my  deetls  misrepresent ; 
To  endure  their  sham<dcss  falsehood 

For  a  time  I  am  content. 
Thcif's  a  l)ow  of  pnimisc  o'er  me, 

In  mv  skv  forever  set — 
It  will  come,  the  hour  of  triumph. 

It  hits  never  failed  me  yet! 


ZACITAKY  TAYLOR. 

Ni»r  where  the  sj»icy  breezes 
or  :i  iri>pic  eliin:ite  fannM, 

Th<'  -t:ir-i]luiiiine(l  banner 
( )**  tl.«'  htTfi*"^  iiidl-laiid: 

N'i!  ill  tin*  .-tnrni  of  l»:ittle. 

V»*li.  Ti'  till*  bMViuH'i  Ld«'aMieil  hijrh, 
\M'>!    ;.«•  ilnini  ami  tiMin|M'i*»  elan^jnr 

W.i-  ilir  jialricil  ti>  ilir  I 

WliiU  I  he  rannnn  stilleil  its  thunder, 
Will  II  the  ^aber  hiil  it*  she«»n. 


When  the  iiirf  bj  blood 

Ii4*AS8ume«l  ito  pub  of 
When  the  worn  and  wear^ 

Laid  his  plume  and  helaeC  bj. 
And  the  l»at tie-hone  unhaneiMd 

Paled  tiie  lightaiog  of  Im  cjre; 

When  the  swart  and  stalwart  plows 

From  the  field  of  strife  and  bkod, 
Soufl;ht  the  brookside  in  the  valkj. 

Where  his  natal  cottage  stood; 
When  the  nation  all  «nu  featal 

At  the  ghastly  wai^s  aoreease^ 
When  the  |N*ople  were  lepofing 

In  the  radiant  light  of 


Wlien  a  grateful  nation  hade  hia 

Lay  the  plume  and  helm  aside^ 
Then  the  scarred  and  tUkkok  hen 

Of  the  many  battles  died  I 
He  is  sleeping  with  the 

And  the  bravent  of  the 
With  his  country's  blessing  o*er 

And  her  laurels  on  his  head! 


A  .SONG  FOR  THE 


A  8C)NG  I  sing,  an  humble 

For  the  farmer's  honest  calUag; 
Who>e  sinews  strung  toil  aO  day  htg 

In  ph»win;r,  threshing. 
Whose  manly  step  and  upright 

We  rentgiiizc  on  meeting — 
Whos<*  lumlened  liand  we  haste  ID  gMf 

In  friendship's  cordial 


No  tinsel  trapping  decks  the 

So  hoi!c>tlv  extended: 
Nor  yrt  liv  kid  or  silken  glore 

N  it  fnmi  winds  defended. 
liroMzi  il.  and  hanl,  and  rough  wilhlA 

Thf  bnM-ze<i  pass  unheededf 
()r  wanled  tjff  by 

Wiih  mittens 


WILLIAM    HUBBARD. 


447 


oth  fine  from  foreign  land 

his  coat  imported ; 
satin  for  his  vest 
ful  hands  assorted, 
md  vest  in  cruder  form 

sheep  wore  while  grazing, 
his  shirt  so  white  was  wrought 
LX  of  his  own  raising. 

upon  Grod  alone, 
id,  or  com,  or  wheaten, 
1  from  his  fertile  field, 
nkfully  is  eaten ; 
'  gathered  *ix)und  his  board 
irerence  look  to  Heaven, 
the  God  by  whom  alone 
mpetence  is  given. 

le  Spring — the  sunny  Spring! 

3S  is  faintly  peeping 

earth  where  it  so  long 

9nds  was  sleeping ; 

Eu:^  singing  in  the  brake, 

le  loud  are  lowing, 

2k  struts  with  prouder  step, 

mticleer  is  crowing. 

6eld  the  farmer  hies 
the  lengthened  furrow — 

he  ground-mole  from  his  sleep. 

bit  from  his  burrow — 

ce  more  the  mellow  mould, 
the  sod  long  growing, 

e  harrow  harsh  prepare 

[  for  time  of  sowing. 

*  come  the  fervid  days, 
like  a  clear  lake  laving 
1  shore  with  billowy  spray — 
ien  fields  are  waving, 
the  farmer  with  the  dawn 
the  laprjrard  sloepers, 
r  merrily  away 
3  the  band  of  reapers. 

nn  comes!  the  misty  days, 
y,  so  dehcious 


No  sun  "intolerably  shines," 
No  wint'ry  winds  capricious — 

The  golden  apple  ripely  hangs 
On  orchard  bough  well  laden. 

And  for  the  purple,  clustering  grape 
Go  forth  the  swain  and  maiden. 

And  while  they  seek  the  luscious  fruit. 

They  plan  the  future  party — 
The  ever-merry  husking  night, 

Of  pleasure  free  and  hearty ; 
Or  for  the  idle  who  prefer 

A  sport  less  mixed  with  toiling. 
They  choose  some  bright  October  night 

For  apple-butter  boiling. 

The  mind  must  have  its  pleasures  too^ 
And  by  the  log  fire  burning. 

Are  old  and  young  with  useful  books. 
The  storied  pages  turning — 

Beguiled  are  those  from  ills  of  age- 
While  these  are  well  preparing 

For  future  life — its  joys  and  ills, 
Its  woes  or  honors  bearing. 

Thus  is  the  farmer*s  house  the  home 

Of  innocent  enjojrment— 
Thus  pass  his  moments  when  relieved 

From  out-of-door  employment : 
Oh  ever  thus  may  be  his  lot 

Of  labor  mixed  with  pleasure 
Until  his  threescore  years  and  ten 

Fill  to  the  brim  life's  measure. 


THE  PRINTER. 

We  knew  a  little  printer  once. 
Who  was  a  clever  fellow 

Until  he  got  to  be  quite  hard, 
By  dint  of  getting  mellow. 

He  well  could  "justify  his  lines," 
And  this  induced  his  thinking 


448 


WILLIAM    HUBBARD. 


[I^Mli 


L. 


That  he  could  justify  his  wayd, 
^VheIl  be  hud  ta'eii  to  drinking. 

He  always  did  hi:*  work  by  "rule,'' 
Hut  drank  rum  without  measure. 

The  only  variaiiee  he  could  see 
Between  his  work  and  leisure. 

''Coins  "  had  he  always  '*in  the  bank,** 

But  Mildom  in  his  |KK*ket ; 
So  when  he  journeyed  for  his  health. 

He  always  had  to  walk  it. 

He  ever  had  a  stick  in  hand 

So  far  as  we  arc  knowing, 
As  well  when  he  was  at  a  **  stand,** 

As  when  a  journey  gc)ing. 

He  wicktnl  grew  extn*mely  fast. 

Yet  with  religious  bias, 
AVheneVr  he  "  knorki'd  a  handful  down," 

He  strait  way  beeiune  y^tous. 

He  **set  in  boxes"  when  at  work, 

But  when,  to  see  Othello, 
He  went  to  phiy,  down  in  the  pit 

Did  sit  this  honest  fellow. 

He  was  a  Christian  in  belief, 
KxcelliMl  ]>erhaps  by  no  man. 

Hi-  printed  faith  was  Protestant, 
Hi?  printed  works  were  -  Honum.** 

In  poiitii's  his  wonls  and  arts 

Ci)iii|N»sed  a  euriou.o  tisMie  ; 
Hi*  pr(*U('ltcd  hard  money,  vet  ho  toiled 

To  make  the  "papiT  i^-^ue." 

Hi*i  ntiM'  ua'i  '*Uoman,**  and  hi'^  teeth 

\V«-iv  '^pfarl."  sui:h  wa>  their  whilfm-ss 
Hi*  fvt-,  all!  tlirv  wt-n*  "ii(>niKin*il," 

•  »  1 

l'iiri\al<'<l  ill  tlirir  bri;:hlne-s. 

OfH"  il:ty  hi'  **  \v<»t  his  furm,"  aht**! 

TiHi  niir«'li.  Mild  it  wa-*  ".'«hattrn'<l;'* 
Ht-  li  II  (liwn  >taii*-,  aiiti  :*ad  to  sav 

Hi>  "iMiM-larf'*  it  wjis  " IjsittenHl." 


His  ''fonn*'  was  laid  opoa  the  "bed." 
Nor  ^monk"  nor  '^friar"  with  bfeMOf, 

Was  where  tiie  printer  dying  faij 
His  btest  '*white-«heel«*'  ' 


He  ^'marked  his  errors,"  and  he  pnjci 
For  grace  by  Heaven  dirededt 

Repentance  came,  and  we  believcia 
His  ^  matter  was  oorrecCed.* 


LITTLE  WILUB. 

Thou  art  cradled  in  a  alomber  which 

lullaby  can  know ; 
They  have  kid  tlu-e,  darling  WQfie,  d 

to  sleep  beneath  the  snow. 
Sunny   eyes  forever  darkened, 

tongue  forever  still. 
Vacant  phiee  in  home's  Had 

th<'  world  can  never  filL 
( >f  the  love  which  from  the 

wearv  wei;;ht  of  woe— 
(>f  the  hope  which  makes  the  fntare 

divinest  radiance  glow— 
Of  purest  joy— of  life  itself—^ 

imleed,  to  say 
How  much  of  all,  lost  Willie!  has 

with  thi*e  awav. 
Ah !  did  we  ^iav,  lost  Willie  I 

m 

I  jrone  iM'fopp; 

Tlie  win<r(*d  throng  of  cherubiai — the 

soMieil,  who  adore — 
The  <leathl«'<is  oneji — the  sanctified. 

tlu'  river  cold, 
j  Hav(*  wfhfimtHl  with  a  bre  diiiaii^ 
I  hiinhkin  from  our  fold. 

;j\W  nii-s  tlMH.*,  but  we  mourn 
beatitude  i^  thine! 
Fruition  (»f  the  Christian  Uopa^ 

tian  Faith  divine; 
j  For  haih  not  the  Riideemer 
{         of  >neh  a-^  thee 
The    Kin;;«ioni    of    the 
eternitv  shall  bo! 


mi 


tteV 


MARY   A.  FOSTER. 


A.  Foster — "  Mary  Neville  " — was  bom  on  the  seventeenth  of  November, 
I  quiet  English  town  near  the  famous  University  of  Oxford.  Her  ancestors 
des  were  of  high  respectability,  and  those  of  her  paternal  grandfather  had 

died,  for  many  generations,  in  the  neighborhood.  There  too  the  Nevilles, 
enitors,  liad  resided  many  years.  "  Mary  Neville's"  father  was  a  man  of 
!  in  the  community,  and  was  much  respected ;  her  deceased  mother,  Eliza- 
ht,  a  woman  of  remarkable  beauty,  grace  and  intelligence.  In  1840,  having 
pses  of  fortune,  they  removed  to  London,  changing  their  rural  life  for  the 

of  the  great  city.  Several  sons  had  attained  to  manhood,  and  the  parents 
i  great  difficulty,  persuaded  by  them  to  emignue  to  tlie  United  States.     They 

to  Michigan  with  the  intention  of  buying  land,  but  abandoning  that  idea 
T  two  ycai*8  in  Detroit.  The  family  then  removed  to  Cincinnati,  and  finally 
)us,  Ohio. 

Neville's  "  prose  compositions  are  quite  equal  to  her  poems.     In  the  style  and 

which  make  the  charm  of  epistolary  writing,  she  excels.  She  assumed  the 
name  of  "Neville"  in  commemoration  of  the  fallen  greatness  of  that  ancient 
ce  so  renowned  in  English  history. 

oster  has  been,  for  six  or  seven  years,  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Oincin* 
'Uey  the  Cmcinnaii  Carmnercial^  and  the  Ohio  Statesman. 


HYMN  TO  THE  STARS. 

less  orbs  that  shine  upon  us  night- 

and  silent  teachers  from  afar, 

Id  I  read  your  lesson  well  and 

Lly, 

o  sentence  mar ! 

ages,  in  unvarying  splendor, 

|re  not  preached,  all  eloquent  and 


ion,  tliat  our  heaits  unaptly  ren- 

leld  to  His  will  ? 

~29 


Ye  shone  as  calmly,  in  the  by-gone  ages, 
On  the  Chaldean,  with  his  eager  eye, 
Who  sought  to  read  your  mystic,  holy 
pages. 

And  read  awry. 

Ah  me!  fore-guessing  not  your  mightier 
glory, 
He  sought  man's  destiny  in  your  bright 
gleams, 
And  turned  to  nothing  but  an  earthly  story, 
Your  warning  beams. 


Do  we  more  truly  learn  your  wondrous 
message, 
Ye  host  of  witnesses,  with  voiceless  cry? 

(449) 


4:>o 


MARY    A.   FOSTER. 


[1«^ 


I)o  we  f  t«.^ay,  or  comprehend  its  prctsage, 
Or  even  try  ? 

Yc  miglitj  forces  timt  through  8pace  im- 

pt-lling, 
Frum  the  first  hour  your  equal  course 

was  set, 
Have  kept  upon  your  way,  in  silence  tell- 


ing 


"  Ho  hoWs  us  yet ! " 

Wliat  are  your  reconls,  so  serenely  closed. 
As  down  on  us  yo  smile,  tninquil  and 
fair, 
Ye  worlds  that  seem  to  lovliness  reposed, 
All  sofl  and  rare ! 

We  cannot  open ;  but  your  priceless  dower 

To  us,  ye  givers  lK)iintiful  and  high! 
Is  it  not  surety  of  the  love  and  power 
Of  Him  aiiigh  ? 


Breathe  on  our  em  awhile  joor 
wonden, 

Your  secrets  telL 


Oh !  stars,  incite  us  with  joar 
soundless. 
Till  we  eschew  all  thoughts  apd 
low. 
Aspiring  to  ye  and  your  Maker  bondb 
Even  below. 


SCVMEB. 

Over  the  lake  and  down  the  iippia|ii« 

The  chasing  sun-beams  soAly  ducci 

play, 

And  strike    the  waters  with  a  lUa 

quiver, 

Sent  from  the  radiant  bow  of  golfad 


Ye    speechless    messengers!    your    task  Ljghtly  the  breeces  with  the 


august, 

Alike  to  worlds  and  ages  hath  been 
done, 
Yo  orators  sublime  of  peace  and  trust 
In  the  all-gui<ling  One ! 


pkying. 
All  perfumed  with  the 

smell 
Of  the  rich  fniitSi  that  oo  dM 

swaying, 
Woo  the  soft  air  with  many  a 

spell. 


>Jut  audibly  ye  s|)eak,  consolers  holy. 

But  in  unuttered  tones,  peq>etual,  say, 
♦'Fear  not!  He  lea«ls  you  o'er  the  rough  And  bendmg  sofUy 'neaih  the 
heights  slowly 
Upward,  away ! " 


fa^ 


gaze 
Of  the  warm  sun,  with 
and  rare. 
Sages,  what  wisdom  <lo  ye  not  inculi*ate  ?   '  The  flowers  droop  gently  in  a 
Patient  and  tireless,  with  your  unsolve^l      A>  some  fond  maid  thai  drops 
dritl !  li<L4  fair. 

A;raiii   the  theme  of  gnindi-ur  teach,  pro-: 

luuliiau',  I^"t  jo\ously  look  up  the 

Till  the  vail  lift !  And  gn^i-t  the  bridcgroooi 

l>y  glance, 
PfH'ts  and  ^ingi^Ts,  who  attune  your  num-,  And  laughing,  to  his  ardent  ki 
Iwrs 
To  the  vjist  universe  in  lofty  swell. 


hlnhsWl 


Till  the  ripe  crops  bcgiB  to 
dani*e. 


wAh 

SiTidl 

I 


1860-60.] 


MARY   A.  FOSTER. 


451 


Green  are  the  woods  and  green  the  grace- 
ful grasses, 
Yet  shrinking  at  the  midday's  burning 
&ce, 
Bat  when  the  night  dew  o'er  the  dry  earth 
passes. 
Reviving  with  a  new  and  sparkling  grace. 

The  many-tinted  butterfly  betimes 

Bestirs  himself,  upon  briglit  easy  wing, 
And  wantons  gaily  with  the  flowers  and 
vines 
Sucking  their  sweetness  with  an  amor- 
ous cling. 

And  here  and  there,  about  the  forest  flit- 
ting. 
Their  colors  glancing  in  the  falling  rays. 
Or  on  the  lightsome  boughs,  in  love  pairs 
sitting, 
The  brilliant  birds  rejoice  in  summer 
days. 

But  who  are  they  upon  the  hill-side  steal- 
ing. 
With  steps  so  slow,  and  pauses  oft  and 
long, 
Resting  anon,  while  through  the  trees  re- 
vealing 
The  Bun  just  lights  their  bended  heads 
upon  ? 

And  rests  upon  the  maiden's  waving  hair. 
And  shines  upon  her  white  and  tiny 
hand 

As  up  she  nuses  it,  with  pretext  fair. 
To  ask  or  answer  to  some  fond  demand. 

Summer  upon   the   earth   and  with  the 
maiden, 
For  she  beloved  was  and  she  dearly 
loved, 
And  with  its  wealth  of  joy  all  richly  laden, 
Her  heart  gave  out  the  blossom  and  the 
bud. 


Summer  upon  the  hills  and  through  the 
valleys ! 
Summer  upon  the  mountains  and  tht 
streams! 
See  how  the  glad  bird  on  the  pine-top  ral- 
lies. 
And  never  of  the  chilly  winter  dreams. 

He  sings  of  love  in  gayest,  gladdest  mea* 

sure. 

While  mute,  the  lovers  listen  in  delight. 

Then  whisper  in  a  rapt  and  silent  pleasure, 

'^Summer  is  here — no  winter  and  no 

nightl " 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD  OF  TRUTH. 

Be  true,  be  strong,  the  battle  rings  around. 
The  forms  of  fallen  warriors  strew  the 

ground ; 
Martyrs  and  victors,  slain,  but  not  to  dio, 
They  give  to  us  the  noble  raUying  cry, 
Be  true  to  death  and  more. 

No  fiery  charger  shakes  the  quivering  sod. 
The  marshaled  forces  are  the  soul  and 

God; 
Nature  and  right  'gainst  error  fierce  at  bay. 
The  powers  immortal  3rield  not  but  delay — 
Eternal  Truth  can  wait 

No  bannered  host  does  mighty  Truth  dis- 
play. 

No  armies  drawn  in  serried  strong  array  ; 

But  solitary  warriors  with  her  shield 

And  shining  sword,  made  ready  for  the 
field; 

These,  and  no  more. 

Thus   to    the  field  against  the  phalanx 

strong, 
Error's  great  army  drawn  in  columns  long, 


452 


MARY    A.   FOSTER. 


[IBM 


*TwaB  here  the  sagea,  propheU  of 
Piercing  the  shadowj   futaie 

trace 
The  heights  and  deptha  of  knofvia^ 

thus  kept 
Watch  on  the  outposta  whOe  tka 

slept 

Untroabled  sleep»  bat  daiL 

Noble  and  worthj  then  to  peiiah  hnt. 
Though  seeming  vanquiahed  in  tkc 

sere ; 
The  holocaust  lo  duty  braTelj 
The  conflict  waged  till  dMlh, 

unwon, 

And  ages  keep  tbe 


Countless,   unnumbered,  bristling  to  the 

front 
With   motlej    armor  and   with  clanging 

trump, 

Victory  is  theirs  to-day. 

But  whose  to-morrow,  when  with  sword  in 
rest, 

The  silent  soldiers  pass  the  solemn  quest  ? 

Tlic  inquest  of  the  future,  when  the  hours 

Clear  and  impartial,  coll  the  warring  pow- 
ers 

To  judgment  and  to  sentence. 

And  who  i«  worthy  of  the  tested  shield. 
The  proven  swoixl,  the  arms  tluit  cazmot 

yield  ? 
They,  and  they  only,  who  forswearing  all. 
Present  and  future  at  tlie  liattle  call, 
Seek  God  alone  and  right. 

For  none  but  i^uch  i^uld  dare  so  dread  a 

strife, 
Wheni  victory  waits  not  upon  hope  or  life ; 
But  dimly  gleams  n^niotedly  and  afar. 
When  with  tlie  dead  \u^  fated  cliainpions 

are. 

But  so  to  die,  is  life. 


Twas  here  the  sons  of  science  strove  and  y^y^^^  triumph,  in  a  briiliaiit 

'^'^''  Around  thee  dazxling  fell* 

How  nobly  let  ourselves  and  children  tell;  j  ^.^,^^,^j  ^^^  ^^  ^  y^^^y^^  ^ 

Faoiiip  the  world's  stem  ignorance  theyj     j„  ^^  ^^  j^^  ^  j^„_ 

^''"^^^^'  1  Hut  now  when  ;rrief  hathdiiiiin*4  Aj 

Contending    aidless,   inch    by    ineh,  and^     And  summer  friends  haTe  fcd. 

^"f?^'  ,       ,         ■  Come— n-st  within  these  kmiw  m 

Our  light  with  worse  tluin  death.      ^,,^^.  ^,^^^^^,  ^^^^^^^  ^^^^ 

"i'was  here  the  patriotc*,  earnest  of  their^  And  I  will  be  to  tliee  a 

time. 
Invoked  the  cliildren  of   their  race  and 

clime 
S<i  oti  in  vain  to  fn^efloni ;  her«»  thev  lt»il 
Wilt  n*  few   would  follow,  for  no  vigor's 

tn'Oil 

Awakes  the  silent  field. 


SONG. 

TnouGH  the  warm  sunfiglit  of  Aj 

By  sorrow's  blight  is  siiaded ; 
Not  from  my  heart,  all  failliliil  bow. 

The  light  of  k)ve  hath  &dad ; 
No,  dearer  far  thou  art  to  mOp 

With  tears  alone  for  dowor. 
Than  when  in  beauty'a  matridoi  ^ 

Tliou  shon'st,  a  starry 


To  dry  away  thy  tears, 
Anil  clia^i*  tn>m  thee,  my 

All  sad  and  gloomy  lean  ; 
And  1  will  wear  thee  in  my 

As  some  rare,  prioelem 
J  And  nnind  theo  Lire  and 
I     Their  radiant  light 


ISAAC   H.  JULIAN. 


JLC  H.  Julian,  a  descendant  of  one  of  the  pioneers  of  Indiana — who  emigrated 
North  Carolina  in  the  year  1807 — was  bom  in  Wajne  oountj,  in  that  State,  June 
^enth,  1823.  His  father  died  when  he  was  an  infant  Isaac  enjoyed  such  com- 
(chool  advantages  as  were  available  to  a  boy  who  worked  on  a  farm.  When  he 
wenty-five  years  of  age  he  turned  his  attention  from  agriculture  to  the  study  of 
Since  that  time  he  has  written  much  in  prose  and  verse,  for  the  newspapers  of 
na,  and  was  a  regular  contributor  to  the  National  Era  and  to  The  Genius  of  the 
In  October,  1851,  he  published,  at  Richmond,  an  interesting  pamphlet  on 
!  History  of  the  Whitewater  Valley."  Mr.  Julian  is  now  editor  of  The  True 
blicany  Centerville,  Indiana. 


BOONE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS.* 

HT  waved  thy  woods,  Kentucky, 
the  Summer's  sunset  glow  ; 
lored  evening  smiled  upon 
e  scene  outspread  below ; 
re's  Eden,  wild,  magnificent, 
esh  from  her  hand  was  there ; 
angels  might  admiring  gaze 
ton  a  scene  so  fair. 

a  mighty  temple,  dark  and  old, 
aved  the  dim  wilderness ; 
)  ancient  music  spoke  his  praise 
aid  the  spreading  trees. 


one  of  BooBe^a  Tisits  to  Kentucky,  of  all  the  em- 
i  party,  only  he  and  hi«  brother  reached  their  dee- 
n.  Soon  after,  it  wax  found  necesMkry  for  the  latter 
m  to  the  icttlements  forsuppliee,  and  Daniel  Boone 
t  alone  in  the  wilderness,  seren  hundred  milee  firom 
areat  white  settlement,  and  spent  almost  three 
I  In  this  solitary  mode  of  life,  amusing  himself  by 
g  and  exploring  expeditions,  lie  is  supposed  to 
een  the  only  white  man  at  that  time  west  of  the 
iuiee.— Vide  Timothy  Flint's  Life  of  Boom ^  p.  82, 


By  the  dark  and  lonely  rivers. 
Flowing  on  in  light  and  shadoi 

The  red  man  and  his  shaggy  train, 
In  sole  dominion  strayed. 

From  the  forest's  deep  recesses, 

Whence  curls  that  wreath  of  smoke  ? 
By  what  startling  crack  of  rifle 

Are  their  slumbering  echoes  woke  ? 
For  twice  two  score  of  nights  and  days, 

The  observant  savage  race 
Have  marked,  with  wonder  and  with  fear. 

The  dreadful  stranger's  trace. 

He  has  reared  his  lodge  among  them. 

He  has  hunted  far  and  wide — 
Alone  in  the  vast  wilderness. 

To  range  it  is  his  pride  I 
Now  at  nightfall  by  his  cabin  door 

He  marks  the  stars  appear — 
His  heart  is  filled  with  home-bred  joy — 

He  smiles  at  thought  of  fear  I 

Woe  to  your  fair  dominion. 
Woe  to  your  day  of  fame. 


(453) 


454 


ISA.Vr    II.   JULIAN. 


[IM 


Ye  dusky  dwc^llrrs  of  the  woods  ! 

Your  ^lor}''«  hut  a  name ; 
Awakrn  from  your  shimbers, 

Awake  or  ix.'rish  all — 
The  foe  is  on  your  huntin^i^-grounds, 

The  herald  of  your  fall ! 

In  vain — the  tide  of  life  flows  in 

On  the  daring  hunter's  track, 
And  not  the  Indian's  high  emprLse 

Can  turn  the  current  back. 
Fien*e  battled  he  with  force  and  fraud. 

Like  a  sava;^  bi*a.st  at  bav — 
But  hid  Btar  of  empire  went  down 

In  many  a  bloody  fray. 

Bright  wave  thy  fields,  Kentucky, 

In  graceful  culture  now  ; 
Tlie  red  man,  like  thy  mighty  woods, 

Has  seen  his  glor}'  bow. 
And  by  the  dark  Missouri, 

The  lone  hunter  p2L<i>ed  to  rest — 
Till  him  thy  <*  Lite  remorse  "  called  home 

To  slumber  on  thy  breast.* 


THE  TRUE  PACIFIC  LINE. 

*MiD  the  evening  twilight  gathering, 

O'er  my  native  Western  plain, 
I  mark  the  fierce  careering 

Of  the  far-sounding  railway  train  ; 
Shrieking  and  thundering  and  clanging, 

It  startles  the  rural  S(*ene, 
Like  the  storm-god's  sudden  api)earing 

On  the  sunmier  eve  serene. 

As  I  sit  and  gaze,  and  listen 
To  the  yet  unwonted  sound, 

Busy  Fancy  backward  wanders 
To  the  PjL^l's  encluuued  ground ; 


When,  where  yon  smoke-fitccd 
And  tugijt  at  his  fiery  rrin. 

The  dim  aisles  of  the  fbrmt 
Knew  ne*er  a  ruder  fttrviii. 


*  It  will  1m>  ip-nrnlly  rpmllprUHl,  thmt  a  fi*»  jmrn  ainre 
ih(>  ninsinii  of  Danirl  Rnonr  an  J  hLi  wlfr  wvvr  rnnofM 
(h>ni  MliwHiuri  to  Kentucky,  and  i««owBUt<««l  lu  (iMMUth 
with  ilhtiui^uiiihrd  funrral  htmun. 


Than  tlic  wild  bird's  merry 

Or  the  wild  deer's  btcakfay  ovms 
While  leaped  llie  sportive  aqoirTCl 

'Neath  the  green  arch  nTrrtii  wi 
Sunk  'neath  the  ax  of  the 

That  forc8t  no  Umger 
Though  a  pioneer  here  and  there  Ei| 

Yet,  'mid  hid  fellows*  grwve^ 

And  I  think  how  this  chain  of  iraa 

Ere  long  all  our  oonntiy  diaD  hai 
And  waft  its  life  and  iu 

More  swift  than  the  lagging 
Aye,  away  to  the  fardistant 

'Twill  point  the  unerring  linet 
Over  mountain  and  valley. 

To  the  vast  Pacific's  brine. 


Flow  tlie  firp-9teed  will  hasten, 

Ever  away — away — 
Over  the  boundless  pimirieSv 

Where  the  elk  and  bison 
Over  the  wandering  rivcri 

ThrrMigh  proud  Stales  yet  to 
And  through  the  mounloan 

Prone  to  the  W 


And  while  yet  the  startled  echoM 

An*  bounding  their  terror  hack, 
How  the  wide  world's  wealth  and 

Shall  hasten  on  the  tnxk ; 
O,  the  ]»anoniraic  ages 

Siiall  |>alti  their  i«toried  powtr; 
And  if  Mammon  is  to  rule  the 

Now  comeri  his  crowning  hoar  I 


But  I  ^eem  to  hear  a  mi 
On  the  breath  of  evening 

From  the  bright,  yet  shadowy 
From  the  melancholy  Past; 

A  ^  still,  small  voice"— I  hoar  il 
Like  gentle  music  fiJt^ 


i] 


ISAAC    H.    JULIAN. 


456 


soul  outweighs  the  spoil  of  worlds, 
the  Ruler  over  alL" 

while  je  pile  Wealth's  trophies 
plain  and  hill  and  glen, 
well  that  greater  treasure — 
ace  of  high-souled  men; 
heads  and  hearts  of  purity, 
glory  of  a  State, 
^auty  of  the  passing  hour, 
uring  prosperous  fate. 

lay  the  track  of  Progress 

ough  the  broad  realms  of  Mind  I 

on  the  cars  of  Light  and  Truth, 

gladden  human  kind ! 

^h  the  howling  wastes  of  Ignorance, 

ough  Pride's  deceitful  show, 

he  banner  of  Salvation, 

the  swift-winged  blessing  go  1 

hall  Heaven's  healing  dews  descend 
ihe  Nation's  fevered  heart, 
uictify  the  vital  tides 
t  nourish  every  part; 
s  advancing  empire 
ks  to  the  Western  Sea, 
acific  of  our  Future 
11  spread  infinitely ! 


3  THE  GENIUS  OF  THE  WEST. 

rius  of  **  ray  own,  my  native  land !" 

sstic  glorious  presence  of  my  dreams, 

the  impulse  of  thy  guiding  hand, 

lil  the    light   upon  thy  brow  that 

cams, 

r  and  familiar  as  the  son's  bright 

ams! 


For  thou  didst  smile  upon  my  life's  first 
dawn, 
A  child,  lone-wandering  by  thy  quiet 
streams, 

Far  from  the  vain  and  noisy  crowd  with- 
drawn. 

Thy  partial  glance  didst  mark  and  seal  me 
as  thine  own. 

Thou  bad'st  me  tune  with  joy  my  rustic 
reed. 
While  smiling  Love  and  Fancy  led  the 
strain; 
And  first  my  willing  voice,  as  thou  decreed, 
Essayed  to  sing  the  glories  of  thy  reign. 
Since,  wandering  wide  out  o'er  thy  broad 
domain. 
Thy  presence  still  has  cheered  me  in  the 
way. 
And  'mid  those  vaster  scenes,  didst  thou 
again 
Inspire  a  higher  and  a  sadder  lay 
Than  that  of  sportive  Love,  to  crown  my 
manhood's  day — 

A  lay  of  Truth,  inscribed  unto  my  kind. 
Their  joys  and  griefs,  their  liberties  and 
wrongs ; 
The  spirit  that  would  every  chain  unbind, 
By   thee   invoked,   inspired    my   later 

songs 
With  stem  rebuke  of  lying  pens  and 
tongues. 
O  still  be  with  me,  Genius  of  the  West  I 
And  grant  the  boon  for  which  my  spirit 
longs — 
To  weave  the  verse  which  thoa  shalt  deem 

the  best, 
Ere  'neath  my  natal  soil,  I  peaceful  pass 
to  rest! 


WILLIAM   H.  BUSHNELL. 


William  II.  Bushnell  was  bom  in  the  city  of  IIudMm,  New  Toric,  oo  ihit  tarn 
day  of  June,  1823,  and  was  educ*ated  at  the  University  of  the  city  of  New  Tcriu  I 
was  fiixt  announced  as  a  poet  on  the  annivensar}'  of  Washington's  biilb^j,  ■  i 
year  1843,  when  he  delivcrt'd  a  poem  entitled  **  Knowledge  is  Power"  bcfive  i 
Junior  Lyceum  of  Chicago,  Illinois.  lie  was  then  reguUirly  occupied  aa  a  CHil  E 
gineer,  but  for  pastime  contributed  editorials  to  tlie  Gem  of  the  Prairie^ 
literary  weekly  paper.  He  was  afterward  editor  of  the  Demoeraiic 
a  brief  period  was  one  of  the  editors  and  publishers  of  the  DoUar  Jfi 
Chicaga 

Mr.  Bushnell  has  written  graphic  sketches  of  Indian  life  under  the 
Frank  Webber,  and  is  the  author  of  a  novel  entitled  **  Prairie  Fire.*     He 
ues  to  labor  as  a  Civil  Engineer,  though  he  is  a  regular  contributor  to  ■ercial  USm 
journals,  and  is  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Chicago  Leader. 


i 


FLOATING  DOWN  THE  TIDE. 

Swift  adown  tlie  silent  river, 

IX)wn  the  ebbing  tide  of  Time, 
From  where  first  the  sunrays  quiver 

0*er  a  new  hearths  waking  cliime — 
OVr  a  pulse  from  chaos  beating. 

With  its  mystic  flow  of  pride, 
We  are  drilling — ever  drilling, 

And  are  floating  down  the  tide. 

On  the  unknown  shore  of  birth-land 

Like  a  tiny  pebble  rolled, 
Wri'athcd  with  Howt'rs  of  lovo  and  beauty, 

Laden  deep  with  h(>|>es  untold ; 
Kfsts  lifcV  bark  a  moment  only 

Kn*  the  zephyr  set*ks  its  side. 
And  it  drills  a  waif— <1  rills  slowly. 

And  is  floating  down  the  tide. 

From  tin*  flowers  of  p]<irioiis  promise 
That  have  ever  l'rin;:rtl  tlie  shore, 

Whfre  tin*  elay  of  lili*  i«*  <pii('k(*n4*d, 
Tunis  the  bark  lon*Vf rmore  I 


Riding  gently  o'er  the  i 

Like  a  feather  seems  to  glide. 
Till  the  fresh'ning  winds  careM  it. 

And  it  hastens  down  the  tide. 


Then  each  sail  youth  spreads  with 

Thinking  naught  of  storm  or 
And  bright  love  and  beautj  only 

Are  the  watch  upon  the  deck; 
As  the  prow  the  rising  bilk>wi 

Da'thes  foam  be-gemm*d 
And  the  storm,  unnoticed 

As  it  floats  adown  the  tide. 


Now  the  wary  eye  of 

Alt  in  vain,  may  trim  the  tailp 
And  ho]K'*s  anchor  alone 

As  a  succor  from  the 


Wild«*r  si  ill  the  fleecy 

That  the  shattered  bark  mul  nk, 
As  it  d;i>h4>?. — madly  dashes^ 

And  fl(Kit*i  helpless  down  the  li 


(4:>«^ 


1&50-60.] 


WILLIAM    H.    BUSHNELL. 


457 


Then  old  age,  with  trembling  fingers, 

No  more  strives  to  check  its  way, 
But  low  kneeling,  seeks  to  fathom 

The  wild,  drifting,  blinding  spray ; 
Seeks  to  gaze  through  gloom  on  Heaven, 

On  the  east-bom  star  to  guide 
His  lone  bark,  that  mastless,  hehnless, 

Sinking,  floats  adown  the  tide. 

Nears  the  bark,  death's  fatal  maelstrom — 

Through  each  open  seam  the  wave 
Boils  resistless,  rushes,  bubbles. 

Till  it  sinks  in  ocean  grave : 
Vain  is  manhood,  youth  or  beauty, 

Vain  is  wealth,  or  love,  or  pride — 
Life's  frail  bark  is  ever  floating. 

Floating  swiftly  down  the  tide  I 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  PRES& 

A  SONG   for    the    Press!    the   Printing 
Press! 
That  has  ruled  the  world  alone, 
Since  the  finger  of  God  first  graved  His 
laws 
On  the  tablet  of  senseless  stone ; 
Since  a  spark  of  his  wisdom  downward 
sent 
Woke  the  slumbering  thought  to  birth. 
And  the  Press,  as  a  meteor,  flashed  thro' 
the  gloom, — 
The  darkness  that  lower'd  o'er  earth. 

A  song  for  the  Press ! — more  potent  far 

Than  the  fiat  of  crowned  king — 
Than  the  cohorts  of  war — than  the  steel- 
clad  men 

That  the  mightiest  can  bring. 
Kingdoms,  and  tower,  and  palace  wall, 

That  have  braved  a  century's  might, 
Crumble  in  ruin,  and  totter  and  fall, 

When  the  Press  wakes  the  giant  Right 


A  song  for  the  Press — the  lever  long 
sought 

The  world  to  sway,  in  times  olden — 
To  check  the  power  of  Oppression's  hand — 

Break  the  rule  of  the  scepter  golden; 
Pierce   the  gloom  of  the  dungeon — the 
captive  free. 

Rive  oak  door  and  iron  rod. 
And  send  broadcast  o'er  a  sin-bound  world 

The  words  of  a  living  Godl 

A  song  for  the  Pres»— the  Angel  that 
lines. 

In  light  on  its  record  page. 
Each  glorious  thought,  and  each  noble 
deed — 

Each  act  of  the  passing  age : 
The  historian's  pen,  and  the  poet's  wand — 

Each  triumph— each  Grod-bom  rhyme — 
Is  recorded  there,  and  forever  lives. 

Defying  the  touch  of  Time ! 

A  song  for  the  Press!     Like  the  armed 
men 
That  rushed  o'er  Rome's  ivy'd  wall. 
When  Liberty  swayed  and  trampled  in 
dust 
Caesar's  pride  and  judgment  hall ; 
So  its  silent  step  wakes  the  down-trod 
one, 
'Mid  his  thraldom,  his  fear  and  gloom. 
And  thunders  in  wrath  round  the  crowned 
king. 
Foretelling  of  death  and  of  doom  I 

A  song  for  the  Press — the  east-bom  star! 

Of  religion— of  liberty — ^power —  • 
Untrameled  by   wealth,  by   passion   un« 
swayed, 
'Tis  the  index — the  scribe  of  each  hour; 
And  still  shall  remain — still  the  slender 
type 
Shall  ^  click,"  and  all  nations  bless ; 
And   the   last  star  from  earth  that  ever 
fades  out 
Be  the  God-model'd  Printing  Press ! 


WILLIAM   DENTON. 


William  Df.nton,  tliuuprli  a  native  of  England,  and  an  emignnt  to  Ammrm  dl 
lu*  had  at(aiiH*d  nianlux)*!,  may  {>ro|M.'rly  bo  clu>sed  among  the  writtnv  of  the  We 
bi*raiiM-  his  liti'rary  life  was  di'VfIup<'d  in  Ohio.  II('  w:is  Ixim  at  Darlington,  Ddrta 
county,  Kn<:land«  in  the  year  1M2>).  lie  went  tti  an  Kn<!lish  Pfiuiy  School  lor  f^^ 
Vfar',  and  wlien  nineteen  Vfai^  old  attended  a  Normal  Scliool  at  Lofidnn  lor  « 
months.  Since  his  n*!<id«'n<H*  in  the  West  h**  has  been  a  romiaoo  school  teachrr  m 
Lcrturer.  In  iHoCt  he  puhli>he<l  a  ^muU  volume  of  P<iem>*  at  Dayton, Ohio. a  wm 
edition  of  whieh  was  issu(^l  at  Cleveland  in  iKfjH.  He  uivoke«  the  Mnse«  rhMk  i 
th<*  iiin'|io«(*  of  ^ivin<;  the  ehami  of  rhythm  to  radical  thouffhtd  on  **  vexed 
nircly  for  the  description  of  natural  objects,  or  for  the  expreiiiiao  of 
pul>c. 


!  To  ev'r}'  soul  of  earth,  thej  give  a  wnph 

TIIoi(;ilT.S.  bu'riiinjr  wings 

TiiotfJiiTS,  gentle  thou^rhts,  are  springin^v  ^^"**  far  aliove  tlie  gates  of  ■»»,  die  «n 

1-,     ^1     ^  ....      .,  alut)  and  sink's, 

like  the  flowers  ui  sniilmg  31  ay ;  .  " 

Uri-ht  earth^tars,  fair  juid  goldrn,  with  a  'r|^^,„jj|„^  dn-wlful  thongfata,  at  mM^ 
blessing  in  each  ray :  ,         „,„,^^  j|,^  ^oul  ^  drifting  wrack; 

They  glad.lrn  ehildhoiHl  in  its  d;uic<*  along  Tin.jr  huriied  fbotdtepa  pncng  mp  m 
lif.'s  v»Tdjuit  lanes,  ,!„,,.„  j|„.  ^H,„ji„g  j^j^ . 

Ami  <«m»iIm»  tiie  yrars  of  nianluMKl,  in  its  ^yhrn  dark  mkHleod»  within  tfe  U 
time  of  toils  and  iKiins ;  |  ^.,,i^,)j  ^^^^0  the  ship  like  kni 

No  (h-«rt  Mini  M}  barren,  but  they  beautify  xhe  enaking  timljcw  groaning  Oe  A 

<>''*  ^l"'<  *  ghoMK  of  troubled  dtflKi, 

And  wJHTe  ihey  fail  to  germinate,  then*  ^hile  gaping  waves  anmnd  it  lor  pMB 

(loil  himndf  is  not.  ^i,„,  ^^.^.^^  ^  g^h^ . 

Kixtm  t hough tii  like  these,  God  save  m^  i 
Thoughts  holy  tlHmght>,  like  stars  arise,  ^,,^.  ,^,^^^,,^.  hour  of  night! 

when  nigiit  enwrap'^  the  >ouI ;  . 

Or   bca^-oii    ligiitt    alNive    tiie    sea,    when  Thought-:  (*c»ine  like  S|iani«h 

\va\es  of  sorn>w  ndi ;  trca^iin*s  o'er  the  #ea« 

Tlicy  i'iii-if  the  d<N)r  on   vanity,  they  shut  With    rieiiest  jewels   freighted; 

out  lii^t  and  pride,  pn-eiits  for  the  free: 

Lik«'  tai !'«'>!  angeU,  wandering  forever  at  Kaeh  hiuI  i^  on  the  tip-toe, 

our  ojde  ;  gallants  touch  the  «kjy 

*  I'  •III  >  for  lii  r>>rimT>.     }\\  \\\\\\\m  Ivuiuu.    .Sn><>iii|  fiitimi.  priutril  for  tb^aatkor,  M  Iks  **  Ti 

(';i-\i  iimi,  o.ii.i,  \<ii.     llEtiiii,  |i|>.  11^. 


1850-«0.] 


WILLIAM    DENTON. 


459 


And  hearts  with  high  hopes  laden,  greet 
those  vessels  drawing  nigh : 

Each  noble  ship  be  favored,  then,  its  des- 
tined port  to  win, 

And  Heaven's  breath  safe  wafl  it,  with  its 
precious  cargo  in. 

Thoughts  come  like  blazing  oomots,  'thwart 
the  gloomj  ev'ning  sky. 

And  wonder-stricken  millions  look  with 
terror  up  on  high ; 

They  dread  lest  ev'ry  fabric,  on  this  God- 
made  earth,  should  fall ; 

Lest  comet  so  portentous  should  destroy 
and  ruin  all. 

But  thoughts,  too,  have  their  orbit,  all  ec- 
centric though  they  look; 

No  waver  in  their  burning  track,  unwritten 
in  the  book. 

Thoughts  come  like  avalanches,  from  the 
lofty  mountain  brow ; 

The  cedars,  firm  and  mighty,  with  their 
sturdy  branches  bow ; 

The  rocky,  moss-grown  castles  fall,  no  tur- 
rets left  unthrown. 

While  loud  above  the  thundering,  comes 

Superstition's  groan. 
Ail  hoary-headed  wrongs  are  swept,  like 

feathers  on  the  blast, 
Xnto  oblivion's  deepest  gulf,  where  sleeps 
"  the  worn-out  past." 


houghts  come  like  shocks  electric,  from 

the  battery  of  Truth, 
o  strengthen  manhood's  nerves  of  steel, 
and  fire  the  pulse  of  youth ; 
"^hey  wake  to  action  virtues  that  have  long 

been  left  to  sleep; 
^And  stir  the  soul's  calm  fountain,  to  its 

silent,  slumb'ring  deep ; 
They  blast  each  growing  error,  with  their 

deadly  lightning  stroke. 
And  leave  its  stricken  carcass,  like  a  rifted 
mountain  oak. 


Thoughts  yoke  themselves  like  fiery  steeds, 

and  drag  the  world  along ; 
Woe  to  the  stumbling-bloc^  that  would  its 

onward  march  prolong ! 
Vain     tyrants,    despots,    slaveocrats,    its 

course  ye  cannot  stay  I 
Resistless  as  the  Universe,  it  moves  upon 

its  way. 
Dash  on,  brave  Thoughts,  in   storm  or 

shine,  in  day,  or  darkest  night! 
The  goal  we're  destined  yet  to  reach,  is 

Love,  and  Truth,  and  Right 


THE  REAL  AND  THE  IDEAL. 

Ever  there  floats  before  the  real, 
The  bright  and  beautiful  ideal ; 
And  as  to  guide  the  sculptor's  hand, 
The  living  forms  of  beauty  stand. 
Till  from  the  rougli-hewn  marble  starts 
A  thing  of  grace  in  all  its  parts — 

So,  ever  stands  before  the  soul, 
A  model,  beautiful  and  whole — 
The  perfect  man  that  each  should  be. 
Erect  in  true  integrity. 
Keep  this,  O  soul,  before  thy  sight. 
And  form  the  inward  man  aright  I 


BLIND  WORKERS. 

As  the  polyp,  slowly  toiling. 

Builds  the  wondrous  coral  hills, 
Never  dreaming  of  the  office 

It  so  dexterously  fulfills ; 
So  the  merchants  and  the  doctors, 

Cabmen,  barmen,  grub-worms  low. 
Lawyers,  parsons,  politicians 

Toil  and  moil,  but  never  know 
They  are  building  like  the  polyp, 

'Neath  the  dark  tumultuous  wave, 
Mansions  for  a  coming  people. 

Noble-hearted,  true  and  brave. 


CAROLINE   A.  CHAMBERLIN. 


In  the  year  1853,  Wunl  and  Taylor,  booksellers  and  publishen» 
a  volume  of  poems  by  Mrs.  C.  A.  Chamberlin,  which  was  reviewed  with 
jotimalists  of  acknowledged  ability.     Mrs.  Cliamberlin  had  been  for  iercnl 
|>opulur  contributor  to  the  Cincinnati  newspapers.     When  her  volame  was 
she  residiHl  with  her  husband  at  Oxford,  Ohio.    About  the  year  1858  thej 
to  California. 


THE  HIDDEN  LIFE. 

Pale  toiler,  with  the  brow  of  care, 

And  thoughtful,  anxious  eye 
Scarce  raised  to  note  yon  flow'rets  fair. 

Or  radiance  of  the  sky : 

Toilcst  thou  for  gems,  whose  quenchless 
my 

Lights  thy  bless*d  spirit's  shrine  ? 
Th(*n,  what  thou  calFst  thine  own  to-day, 

Tu-morrow  still  calls  thine. 

Toil  as  becomes  tliy  heavenly  birth. 
While  waves  of  time  sliall  roll ; 

For  tlu're*s  no  jKiverty  on  earth, 
Like  that  within  the  souL 

Tuni  from  the  scenes  of  care  and  strife 

Which  ever  round  thee  rise, 
And  hold  in  thy  sweet  inward  life. 

Communion  with  the  skies. 

For  wh«»n  tiiou  ycam'st  for  wings,  to  be 

With  fipirits  pun^  in  heaven, 
Piii-e  >pirits  will  come  down  to  thee, 

Aiui  heaven  on  earth  be  given. 


For  o\\  they  come  with  pitying  eyes, 
And  genth*,  noiseless  tn^ad. 

The  links  between  us  and  the  skies— 
( hir  l(>V(>d  and  holy  dead 


We  think  of  them  in  ereniof 
And  in  the  mom's  first  light ; 

We  link  their  memories  with  the  §omtn 
And  all  things  pure  and  brigfal. 


We  weep,  as  through  the  atiil  oiglkt 
We  gaze  on  some  loved  star; 

Weep,  though  we  deem  them 
In  those  pure  homes  afiur. 


We  call  them  from  the  renhm  of 
With  love  which  cannot  die^ 

And  list  to  hear  a  word  or 
But  there  is  no  reply ! 

For  there  arc  sounds  which  fidi 

U|)0n  the  spirit's  ear : 
We  must  be  like  the  loved 

If  we  those  sounds  would 


THE  SONS  OF  ART. 


The  spirit's  wreaths  alone  hate 
The  present  with  the  past; 

And  thf*  influence  of  one  rnifbtf 
In  every  soul  is  cast ; 

And  though  their  fonns  fioa 
fliNl, 

The  glorious  Sons  of 
(460) 


CAROLINE    A.   CUAMBERLIN. 


461 


rank  those  with  the  dead, 
our  lives  are  part. 

m  cannon  boom  hid  fame, 
i  with  carnage,  dies  ; 
3*8  holiest,  heavenlj  flame, 
less  souls  arise, 
?ho,  with  seraphic  might, 
lale  night-lamp*8  rays, 
it  the  holy  spirit-fight, 
Qg  gold  or  bays. 

Q  thy  halls,  O  Death  I 

brgotten  things, 

:he  water's  fiery  breath, 

re  it  into  wings : 

)verty  and  fearful  strife 

a  victory  brave ; 

,  that  should  have  crowned  his 

s  garlands  o*er  his  grave. 

busy  city's  mass, 
ife  beats  full  and  strong, 
3  influence  as  we  pass 
'he  motley  throng ; 
iieight — in  bloom-clad  dell, 
;arth  a  home  can  give, — 
;  the  blue  waves  proudly  swell, 
le  for  aye  must  live  I 

his   death,   thou   w^reath,   thou 

thy  gifts  shed  o'er, 

d  the  lightning  on  the  wire, 

space  be  no  more  ! 

thought  pinions,  as  the  wind 
Dwer-seeds  o'er  earth's  face, 

knit  the  bands  that  bind 
erhood  the  race. 

^od,  the  only  true, 
ever  blessed,  they'll  be, 
11  some  solemn  work  to  do 
•nged  humanity ! 


Nor  shall  the  poet  ask  a  theme 

For  deep  and  burning  song, 
While,  mingling  with  his  loveliest  dream. 

Uprise  that  holy  throng. 


A  PICTURE. 

Sue  stole  upon  one  unaware, — 

As     sunbeams    through    the     cloud-rifts 

play,— 
And  ere  they'd  asked  if  she  was  fair, 
She'd  kissed  the  critic-spell  away ; 
With  step  as  falling  blossoms  mute. 
And  smile  caught  from  celestial  sphere — 
And  plaintive  voice,  like  dove  or  lute, 
She  waked  the  thought,  **  What  doth  she 

here?" 
Too  swiftly  o'er  her  cheek's  pure  snow, 
For  health's  warm  flush,  the  rose   tinge 

flew; — 
Too  lightly  dawned — too  soon  to  go— 
And  left  that  cheek  too  pale  of  hue. 
A  sorrow,  beauteously  borne. 
As  earth  bears  twilight  on  her  face — 
As  holy  vesture  meekly  worn, 
Spoke  from  lip,  eye,  and  form  of  grace. 
Whose  every  movement  seemed  to  be 
Attuned  to  touching  melody. 
One  asks  not  why  the  flower  love  wakes, 
Blessed  in  the  spell  it  doth  impart — 
The  sweet  bird-minstrel  captive  takes 
The  soul — unquestioned  of  its  art; — 
The  star-beams  oft  the  heart  have  swayed, 
All  coldly  dead  to  sterner  power ; — 
And  heaven  in  her  the  charms  displayed. 
The  blended  force  of  bird,  star,  flower ; 
So  to  the  spirit's  depths  she  stole 
With  gentle,  yet  with  queenly  gi'aoe, 
And  throned  herself  within  the  soul. 
As  if  alone  her  rightful  place ; 
Yet  bound  she  not  that  soul  to  earth, 
Nor  filled  it  with  an  earthling's  love ; — 
To  love  her,  it  must  feel  its  worth, — 
To  love  her  it  must  soar  above. 


4H2 


CAllOLINE    A.   CHAMBKRLI-N. 


[]U«>C 


A  spirit,  from  her  clmng<'ful  eye 
J><H>keil  furth,  all  sjiintly,  mild  and  meek, 
Yet  iinmdly,  gloriously  hij^h, 
L(M)k(Hi  forth — as  with  piireMiulft  to  speak. 
Tli:it  lt)ok  thi*  lofiy  trust  hftniyrd, 
Wliirh  most  to  virtuous  det^d  <loth  stir — 
Ono  Hii^^ht  mH't  scorn,  in  jruilt  arrayed. 
Yet  could  not  nuike  her  jutlgiiient  err! 
Who  Ii>rht  of  womniiV  worth  could  think, 
Who  for  himself  »carc<»  hreathod  a  pniyer — 
From    that    high   glan<*e,  abasheil,  would 

shrink, 
To  read  his  thought's  deep  falsehood  there. 
Her  life  was  what  the  many  teaeii 
Alone — in  lofty  sounding  lays, — 
It  chimed  with  seraph  song  or  speech — 
Iix'lf  a  melody  of  praise. 
One  felt,  she  on  their  {Mith  to  heaven, 
A  purely  tranquil  light  luid  thniwn  ; 
And  to  their  spirit's  harp  had  given 
One  more — perchance  its  sweetest  tone 


Thtiy  come  like  beauieoas  pnmpbi| 
And  brightly  glance  awhilei 

Adowii  the  soul's  deep  waten ; 
Then  vanish  like  a  Msilo. 


Tliesc  voieelcrss  ones  and  kvreljy 
In  song  I  would  diem  twine ; 

That  they  may  s|ieak  to  odier 
Wliai  they  liave  breatlied  to 

But  in  the  world  of  language. 
They  have  no  home,  no  plaee ; 

A  l>eam  of  light  upon  the  mniI 
They  leave — their  onlj  inoe  I 


Think'st  thou,  thou  know^tl  the 
Uy  the  light  song  he  angi? 

The  loveliest  freaftures  of  the  no^ 
Mue>t  aye  be  hidden  thingi ! 


TO  A  MOSS  PLANT. 

O  LITTLE  plant,  whose  hone  is 
Dei'p  in  the  forcst*fi  somber 
Why  ha>t  tliou  o'er  my  soal 
Tiian  holds  each  beauteous 


THE  SOUI/S  VISITANTS. 


What  are  those  strange,  mysterious  things, 

Tho^e  fleeting  ones  and  bright ;  |  ^vhy  shouldst  thou  be  so  dew  ta  ms^ 

rii.il  waken  thus  with  unseen  wings,  ;'i'|„jt  j  ^i.^^uy  i^^^^  tlie  rose  fcr 

The  >pirit's  glimmering  light?  xi„.  i„.i^,|,f  t^niaiion's  queenly 

•  To  gsize  u|Mm  thy  pale^  meek  free? 


'1' 


Tlii'v  come  when  earth  seems  dark  with 

W(H*, 

Th«'V  lift  the  vail  of  strife ; 
Tin  V  ifune,  these   lovely  one>,  to  show 
TIk-  life  within  the  life! 

f 
Tlhv  ^tfal  the  eloud  «»f  sormw, 

TIm;  on  iIh'  spirit  li«**  ; 

Aii'l  line  ii  with  the  iM(irn>w, 

ri  ■•  iimrmw  of  ilif  >kii's. 


Is  it  herause  thou  seem'st  the  csn 
,(>f  Ilim  alone  who  placed  thee  thflf? 
-  Wiiile  lavish  wealth  and  k»Te 

To  shield  the  garden  plant 


;  Ave.  tlti<  it  is.  and  more — thou  art 
The  i\)M-  of  many  a  noble  heailt 
Thiit  l)r:i\ely  lN*:irs  its  humble  6lB^ 
l>v  liuiMun  love  left  desolate  1 


WILLIAM   E.  GILMORE. 


LI  AM  Edward  Gilmobe  was  born  at  Chillicothe,  Ohio,  November  thirds 
He  is  the  eldest  son  of  William  Y.  and  Mary  Tiffin  Gilmore.  He  graduated 
e  Seminary,  near  Cincinnati,  in  1846,  and  in  December  of  that  year,  while 
law  with  Oliver  Spencer  and  Richard  M.  Corwine,  was  married  to  Amanda, 
ir  of  Samuel  and  Martha  Betts,  of  that  city.  He  began  the  practice  of  law 
licothe,  in  1849,  and  is  now  a  prominent  member  of  the  Ross  county  bar.  Mr. 
e  was  a  contributor  to  the  Western  Quarterly  Review,  published  at  Cincinnati 
>,  and  has  since  written  for  Graham*8  Magazine,  Cfodef/'s  Lady's  Book,  the  JVo- 
Era,  the  Scioto  Gazette,  and  the  Genius  of  the  West.  In  1854  and  1855  he 
itor  and  proprietor  of  the  Ancient  Metropolis,  a  daily  and  weekly  newspaper 
licothe,  which  has  since  been  discontinued. 


JCTION  OF  THE  PRIESTHOOD  OF 
BAAL. 

sing  sun  with  level  rays  of  light 

^lory  crowns  Mt   CarmeFs  rocky 

ight. 

reath^d  mists  collected  dense  below, 

;eous  hues  of  gold  and  purple  glow ; 

lower  yet  upon  its  slopes  are  seen 

ircling    groves    of   cedars,  darkly 

een; 

aidst  their  verdure,  gleaming  here 

d  there, 

iping  mountain  streams  like  silver 

II ids  appear. 


Lo !  like  an  army  comes  a  countless  throng 
With  measured  tramp,  the  winding  way 

along. 
And  flaunting  banners  proudly  wave  above 
Exultmg  Priests  of  Baal  and  Prophets  of 

the  Grove. 

A  single  palm-tree,  near  a  basined  spring, 
Towers  o'er  the  scattered  cedars,  like  a 

king. 
Hither  they  come;  and  soon  beneath  it 

rise 
An  ivory  throne,  and  tent  of  Tynan  dyes. 
Through  opening  ranks  stalks  Ahab  to  his 

seat. 


And  bursting  shouts  the  son  of  Omri  greet. 

on  the  air,  in  wild  concordance  rise  ^e  waves  his  hand,  and  every  voice  is  still, 

And  every  ear  attent  to  learn  the  royal 
wUl. 


Canners  base,  a  thousand  mingled 

ies ; 

oiling  cymbals,  and  the  harp's  shrill 

^ang, 

tiistling  pipes,  and  brazen  trumpets' 

ang. 


"Ye  Priests  of  mighty  Baal — ^before  whose 

shrine 
Samaria  owns  her  deity,  and  mine— 


(463) 


4ti4 


WILLIAM    E.   GIL3IORE. 


[ItfMt 


This  Tishbite  bCoflTcr  dares  our  god  con-  He  cried,  enraged  ;  **  and 


temn, 

Mock  ut  hid  power,  hia  worshipers  con- 
demn. 

An  ultar  build;  your  votive  oflT'rings  {My. 

With  mystic  ritCA  8U]K*nial  |K)W(rrs  obi*y. 

Cull  from  the  clouds  the  lightning's  vivid 
risune, 

Tliut   Icrael  may  learn   to   venerate   liis  Thou  shall  be  thrown  to  writlie 


hear 
This  further:   now  faj  dl  Ibe  go^!  I 

sweAr 
That  while  the  fire  oonsumes  ihit  mofi 

wood. 
And   hissing  lickB   the  bollock** 

bloody 


luuuul 


flame; 
And  thus  shall  perish  mD  who  wooA  BmT 
holy  name ! " 


"*  Stand  forth,  thou  scofier ! "    Forth  Elijali 

stood, 
Calm  and  erect  where  others  lowly  bowed.  Elijah  heard  the  horrid  threat,  and 
^  Wilt  thou   persist    in   troubling    Israel  Which  ro:^e  in  fierce  approval ;  boi  wid 

yet  ?  "  out 

**  Aliab !   not  I ;  but  thou  and  thine  for- 


jr«»t 


A  word  or  changing  feature  lo  beCnj 
Fear  of  untoward  issue  to  the  day, 
Gn<l,  and  his  law,  on  awful  Sinai  given,       In  holy  ei*>tiuiy  he  stooil ;  his  fool 
And  bring  on  Jacob's  s<*(*d  the  curse  of  jKnnipt,  frit  only  the  divine  eontrol; 
heaven  !  -  All  human  feelings  for  the  momenl 

Krpent,  O !   king ;  for  lo !    this  (hiy  the  (TodV  awful  spirit  reigned  within  hii 


I^rd 
Will  ffurtul  vengeance  take,  and  be  by 
earth  adored. 


alone. 


The  work  is  done.     The 

blO(K] 

Drip|M  d  slowly  o*er  the 

WO(k], 

While  frankincense  and  myrrli 

rare 
Mingled  rich  odors  with  the  auhrT  dr. 


"  Yo  Priests  of  Bajil  I  ye  Pn)phets  of  the 

(irove! 
II<*ar  now  the  word  whieh   comet li  from 

alM>ve : 
Thi-i  tiny  ye  |XTish  !     Go  now,  and  ol)oy 
Tliy  kin;: '>  eomiiiatid,  thy  impious  homage 'Pn>|)li«'ts   and    Priests   in   ciKiii 

p:iy ;  around 

How  down  to  yonder  .-^('nselos  block  of  .Pnisirnte  to  earth,  their  Ibreheadi  la  A 

^tone,  I  gnnniil, 

Wliirh  ye  rcganl  a**  (i«xl ;  when  ye  have  Slionted  in  unison  the  idle  prayer 


iloiie 


lr.«. 


Fill  Cannel  in-mbled  to  the  »j, 
Haal :  C).  hear ! 


The  «»ri:i<'>  vain,  Til  pih*  an  altar  here 
Ami  call  upon   llis  name  who  hears  and 

The  ery  aroM\  in  re|)etition 
Willi    :iri;MT    paled    the    monan'h   on    his  **  Ili-ar,    Haal !   (),  hear!"    li 

I  tin  It ic  :  I  zenilii  shone 

**Tii\  (linice  is  fnial!    Let  the  work  s]>eed  I'lNm    ilu*    impioui    toene^   the 


on. 


sun. 


50-60.] 


WILLIAM   E.    6ILM0RE. 


466 


lid  with  excitement  then,  and  boding 

fear, 
ach  Priest  and  Prophet,  to  the  girdle 

bare, 
Li  bosom  gashed  with  many  a  ghastly 

wound, 
nd  sprinkled  human  blood  o'er  all  the 

space  around  I 

''ide  o'er  the  plain  Mt.  Carmel's  shadow 
fell, 

re  on  the  air  the  clamor  ceased  to  swell ; 

1th  strength  expended  and  exhausted 
breath, 

nd  trembling  dread  of  dose  impending 
death, 

hey  watch  Elijah's  preparations.     Soon 

welve  stones  compose  an  altar,  rough,  un- 
hewn ; 

bout  its  base  the  ground  is  deeply 
trenched, 

rith  water  from  the  spring  three  times 
the  whole  is  drenched. 

11  things  complete,  Elijah  bowed  in 
prayer. 

hen  shook  Baal's  votaries  with  gasping 
fear; 

ut  as  the  minutes  silent  stole  away, 

hey  borrowed  courage  from  the  long  de- 
lay. 

Ith  hanghty  mien,  his  crown  upon  his 
brow, 

rem  the  royal  seat  uprises  Ahab  now, 

lalks  to  the  altar,  and  with  gesture 
proud, 

peaks  in  exultant  tones  thus  to  the  won- 
d'ring  crowd : 

Why  trifle  we  ?  and  here  with  childish 

thouf^ht 
eek  from  the  heavens  to  have  an  answer 

brought 
o  teach  us  who  is  God  ?     Behold  in  me 
hy  king  anointed,  and  thy  deity ! 


Thus  level  with  the  dust  each  dirine  pro- 
fane 

That  is  not  reared  in  Ahab's  sacred  name  I** 

He  turns  with  rash  design,  but  startled, 
hears 

Wild  shrieks  of  terror  break  on  his  aston- 
ished ears. 

For  lo !  amid  the  cloudless  sky,  a  blaze 
Of  lightning  like  a  sporting  serpent  plays. 
Writhing  its  folds  in  fiery  volumes  vast, 
With  open  jaws  and  fury-sparkling  crest, 
A  moment  plays ;  attending  thunders  crash ; 
Carmel  recoils  affrighted  from  the  flash, 
Which  scatter!'  far  and  near  the  idol's  pyre, 
And  wraps  Jehovuli's  altar  in  consuming 
fire ! 


*Tis  mom  again  ;  but  now  the  risen  sun 

Is  hid  by  clouds  and  mists,  cold,  thick,  and 
dun. 

As  'twere  to  vail  from  the  All-seeing  Eye 

The  flame-scathed  forms  that  dank  and 
fest'iing  lie 

On  Carmel's  slopes.  The  obscene  vultures 
prowl, 

Silent  among  the  dead;  the  ravening  jack- 
als howl. 

Eager  and  savage  o'er  their  loathsome 
feasts ; 

The  Groves  are  solitudes ;  Baal's  temples 
have  no  Priests ! 


O,  I  WAS  HAPPY  YESTERNIGHT. 

The  hearth  was  piled  with  glowing  coals, 
Diffusing  warmth  and  ruddy  light. 

Alone,  with  Annie  in  my  arms, 
O !  I  was  happy  yesternight ! 

Her  beating  heart,  I  felt  its  throb 
When'er  I  strained  her  to  my  breast ; 

And  in  its  raptured  trembling  read 
The  love  I  wooed  her  for,  confessed. 


30 


466 


WILLIAM    E.    GILMORE. 


[U 


IltT  tearful  eyofs  »o  brightlj  blue, 
Turned  not  their  melting  tuj»  on  me ; 

Upon  the  shadowy  cimI  she  gazed, 
Like  one  who  dn»amed  in  ecstasy. 

And  not  with  words  we  plighted  faith ; 

For  words  the  rapturous  spell  had  broke ; 
Yet  firmer,  truer  vows  than  ours, 

O !  never  yet  hath  lover  spoke. 

All  fears,  all  sorrows  I  forgot, 

My  soul  was  ravished  with  delight ; 

Alone,  with  Annie  in  my  arms, 
O !  I  was  happy  yesternight ! 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  MOUNT  LOGAN.* 

Ye  who  love  only  Nature's  wildest  form : 
The  desolate  rock,  tlie  desolating  storm  ; 
The  toppling,  crackling  avalanche  of  snow, 
Threat*ning  with  ruin  all  the  plain  below, 
AVhere  the  poor  peasant  from  the  chilly 

soily 
Wrings  half  a  maintenance  with  double 

toil; 
The   beetling  crag,  out-jutting  from  the 

shore, 
Wliere  ocean  chafes  with  everlasting  roar. 
Mindless  how  oft  the  drowning  sailor's  wail 
Has  mingled  tlicre  with  winter's  whistling 

gule; 
Who,  with  romantic  affectation,  call 
The  dreary,  lifeless  d»'serts  beautiful. 
Where  bleaching  liones  of  i>erish<fd  pil- 
grims lay 
Pointing  tlie  future  cxiravan  its  way ; 


A  {•niuiiocDt  hiLl  m«r  Cbillii-othr,  Oblo. 


Go,  find  such  Kcnea  where  LjbiaB 

are  spread, 
Or  huge  Mont  Blanc  nprean  its  gEn 

head. 
Or  S<*ylla    frowns,  the 

dread. 
But  thou,  O  gentler  tonrist, 
A  purfT  pleasure  o*er  thj  fptris 
When  softer  kuidscapea  open  to  thy  i 
Their  endless  novelties  of  fbffm  aui  I 
Come  wander  here,  with  peosTe  ilq 

slow. 
Where  sweet  Scioto's  silver  walen  ft 
And  smiling  Nature  owns  how  kmda 
Gave  man  this  bright  and  lif  iififiil  d 


YON  BROOK  HATH  WATERS  PCAE 

BRIGHT. 

Yon  brook  hath  walen  P^ufy  Wgi 
Its  bed  hath  pebbles  pure 
U|K>n  its  marge  the  violeC  growf 
Beside  it  blooms  the 


I  know  a  maiden  brighter  6r 
Than  e*er  its  sun-kiased 
No  white  so  pure  its 
As  Annie*s  parted  lips 


bathed  iadrvi 


Her  eyes  are  deeper. 
Than  yonder  violets 
A  n)se  to  peer  her  TermeO 
In  vain  'mong  yonder  dualen 


And  soAer  than  its 
Her  voice,  so  musical  and  low; 
And  all !  her  soul  shows 
Than  in  the  brook*s 


BENJAMIN   ST.  JAMES  FRY. 


Benjamin  St.  James  Fry  has  been  a  resident  of  Ohio  since  he  was  three  years 
age,  but  he  was  bom  at  Knoxville,  Tennessee,  on  the  sixteenth  day  of  June,  1824. 
e  received  a  liberal  education  at  Woodward  College,  in  Cincinnati,  and  then  pre- 
red  for  the  ministiy,  and  became  a  member  of  the  Ohio  Conference  of  the  Method- 
.  Episcopal  Church.  He  is  now  President  of  the  Worthington  College  for  Yoong 
omen. 

Mr.  Fry  began  his  literary  career  as  a  contributor  to  the  Cincinnati  Iktily  TimeSj 
out  the  year  1840.  In  1844  he  was  joint  editor  and  publisher,  with  Austin  T.  Earle, 
the  Western  RamUer,  one  of  the  many  unsuccessful  literary  magazines  which  too 
»peful  young  men  have  undertaken  in  the  West.  He  is  the  author  of  several 
ose  works,  and  is  a  contributor  to  The  Methodist  Quarterly  Review,  at  New  York, 
id  the  Ladies*  Repository,  at  Cincinnati. 


DROOP  NOT. 

0  Child  of  sorrow,  toiling  o'er  life's 
way, 

toop  not ! "  I  heard  a  white-robed  angel 
say; 

And  God  shall  give  thee  yet  a  triumph- 
day. 

Pyrants  may  pierce  thee  with  the  keen- 
est steel, 
nd  rack  thy  body  till  the  brain  shall  reel, 
ut  Grod  shall  guide  it  for  thy  lasting  weaL 

Who  falls  for  God  and  man,  he  never 

dies, 
ut,  deathless,  liveth  ever  in  the  skies, 
king  among  the  saint's  of  paradise. 

And  if  they  hide  thee  from  the  sun's 
bright  gleams, 

hough  prison  bars  may  rend  thy  fondest 
dreams, 

bey  cannot  shut  thee  from  the  Spirit- 
beams. 


(467) 


"  They  sleep  not  listless  on  a  bed  of  down. 
Who  win  the  lasting  plaudit  of  renown. 
But  wear,  with  joy,  the  martyr's  thorny 
crown. 

"  Thy  Master  drank  a  bitter  cup  for  thee, 
And  canst  thou  hope  the  eternal  Ejng  to 

If  from  his  bloody  cross  thy  soul  would 
flee? 

"List,  ye!    Thy  brother  man,  wifli  soul 

sublime. 
That  lived  within  the  olden  Jewish  dime, 
And  prophesied  the  stately  march  of  time : 

"  His  glowing  Spirit  pages  thus  I  read : 
In  the  dim  morning  sow  thy  precious  seed. 
Nor  let  the  evening  shades  retard  thy 
speed. 

"  And  though  death's  shafts  shall  lay  thy 

body  cold, 
The  God  of  hosts,  who  reigneth  as  of  old. 
Shall  give  thee  better  harvest  than  earth's 

gold. 


468 


BENJAMIN   ST.   JAMES    FRY. 


[liS( 


*^  O  child  of  sorrow  I  couldst  thoa  only  boc 
Thy  Suviour,  as  ho  smileth  dow  on  thee, 
Thy  heart  would  mount  like  bird  in  spring- 
tide glee. 

^Thou  wouldftt  not  heed  the  storms  on  life's 

dark  way, 
But  fix  thy  vision  on  the  gleam  of  day 
From  the  eternal  throne — nor  think  to  stay. 

*^  I  charge  thee,  brother,  if  thy  soul  hath 

caught 
The   light  of   heaven,  let   not  a  single 

tliought 
Rest  on  the^e  fancied  toys  that  sin  hath 

bought ; 

^But  f^ck  thee  ever  for  the  tlirone-girt 

spring, 
Till  angcl-bands  thy  triumph  notes  shall 

sing, 
And  heaven*!)  high  urches  with  the  echoes 

ring." 


Tell  him,  a  woman'ii  emrlj  bve 

Is  changeless  as  the  «k  j ; 
The  fimt  true  feelings  of  dfee  heAit 

Are  those  that  last  for  aye; 
And  like  the  star  of  erening^ 

Far  brighter  is  its  ny* 
As  darker  grows  the  thirkfiny  gh 

Which  shrouds  flie  fine  of  day. 

I  pray  thee,  say,  I  kve  him  jH 

As  in  the  rooon-Iit  houTv 
When  fin«t  be  knelt  him  at  my  fmC 

Within  the  vine-cfaMl  bower; 
Then  my  every  thought  waa  U^ 

The  crimson  blush — the  sigh ; 
Too  true  I  feel  they  are  so  adili 

And  wiU  be  tiU  I  die ! 


SAY,  I  LOVE  niM  YET. 

I  PRAT  thee,  nay,  I  love  him  yet. 

Although  long  yours  have  {Missed, 
And  I  am  straiigoly  altered  now 

Since  he  has  seon  me  last ; 
The  vermeil  hue  thiit  ting<Hi  my  cheek 

IIiu  ftuicMi  from  it  now  ; 
Tlie  smile  has  wiuidt^rod  from  my  lips 

And  olouded  w  my  brow  ! 

Tt'll  him,  I  love  him  yet !     The  words 

He  whis|K?n»d  in  my  ear. 
So  full  of  pun*  and  pNlIike  love 

K*t*n  now  in  dreams  I  hear, 
Like  aii^^i-rs  Mwe  from  yond<.T  world. 

So  niusioal  its  torn* ; 
Truii.-]N»rt(>d  with  the  sound,  I  wake. 

And  tind  I  am  alune ! 


ON  TIIE  DEATH  OF  AM  nFAXT.* 

There  sleeps  beneath  tlus  marbb  Im 
A  little  flower,  that  'gan  to  blooa^ 

But  withered  en  the  evm; 


For  came  the  giant  wixard.  Death, 

And  stole  away  its  fragrant  brmtbi 

As  bees  the  sweeta  of 

It  was  a  gentle  little  thing, 
Like  violets  that  bloom  in  Spri^^ 
Within  some  pleamnt 

It  ^ntly  smiled  a  time  or  twiH 
And  o|M-d  its  eye  of  liquid  bfaic^ 
Hut  not  on  earthly 


W«*  wept  not  o'er  it«  floweiy  bier: 
Why  should  we  slied  a  md^ 
That  it  had  flown  to 


It.«*  mother  k>st  an  evening 
Its  gains,  indeed,  were 
It  'sealed 


•lc4k«Ck««vll«Hl 


MARY   E.  FEE   SHANNON. 


EuLALiG  Fee  was  a  descendant,  on  her  fkther^s  side,  from  the  family  to 
)hn  Philpot  Curran  belonged,  and,  on  her  mother's  side,  from  the  Pilgrim 
of  Plymouth,  Elizabeth  Dutton  Carver,  her  mother,  belonging  to  the  seventh 
>n  in  a  direct  line  from  John  Carver,  who  came  to  America  in  the  Mayflower. 
Hits  were  married  at  Marietta,  Ohio,  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  October,  1817. 
their  third  child,  and  was  bom  at  Flemingsburg,  Kentucky,  on  the  ninth  day 
lary,  1824.  Her  father  died  when  she  was  eleven  years  old.  The  family 
ded  in  Clermont  county,  Ohio.  Her  mother,  a  woman  of  uncommon  energy 
ter,  being  lefl  in  destitute  circumstances,  was  obliged  to  provide  for,  and  edu- 
family,  until  her  two  sons  had  attained  strength  and  experience  which  ena- 
Q  to  afford  her  assistance ;  yet  Mary  E.  was  well  instructed,  not  only  in  the 

of  learning  ordinary  for  young  ladies,  but  was  given  the  best  opportunities 
al  culture  which  Cincinnati  afiTorded— opportunities  which  she  practically  im- 

When  quite  a  young  girl  she  wrote  verses  which  highly  pleased  her  friends, 
afterward  an  acceptable  contributor  to  The  (hlumhian  and  Great  West,  to 
inncUi  Daily  Times,  Arthur's  Home  Magaziney  and  other  periodicals.  She 
th  great  ease,  and  was  very  reluctant  to  revise. 

^ee  was  married  at  New  Richmond,  Ohio,  on  the  thirty-first  day  of  January, 
John  Shannon,  then  editor  of  a  newspaper  at  Auburn,  California.  In  the 
allowing  she  accompanied  her  husband  to  his  home,  promising  herself  lit- 

well  as  other  usefulness,  on  the  shores  of  the  Pacific ;  but  her  health,  which 
r  been  robust,  declined  rapidly,  and  she  died  on  the  twenty-sixth  day  of  De- 
1855.  Among  the  papers,  returned  from  California  to  her  friends  in  Cin- 
vas  a  poem  in  which  a  painful  foreboding  that  she  would  never  tread  her 
nd  again,  was  sorrowfully  expressed  : 

There's  a  storied  vale  romantic 

Beyond  the  wide  Atlantic, 

Where  the  red  June  rose  is  blushing 

'Neath  the  melody  ouigushing 
From  each  embowering  grove. 

Shall  my  feet  again  be  roaming, 

In  the  evening's  pleasant  gloaming, 
Where  they  were  wont  to  rove  ? 
The  fitful  winds  are  sighing  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  my  heart-chords  low  replying,  nevermore. 

gust,  1854,  Moore,  Wilstach,  Keys  &  Co.,  Cincinnati,  published  her  poems  in 
uodecimo  of  one  hundred  and  ninety-four  pages.  It  was  entitled,  **  Buds, 
8,  and  Leaves.** 

(469) 


470 


MARY    E.    FEE   SHANNON. 


[16M 


NEVER  STOP  TO  LOOK  BEHIND  YOU. 

Nkver  stop  to  look  behind  you, 

Never  loiter  through  tho  day, 
Never  let  inxietion  bind  you 

In  its  woof  of  brown  and  gray ; 
But  up !  and  onward,  ever ! 

To  the  left,  nor  to  the  right. 
Let  your  gaze  be  turning  never ; 

But  where  beams  the  beacon  light 
Of  duty,  straight  before  you, 

Keep  your  feet  upon  the  way ; 
For  though  clouds  should  gather  o'er  you, 

They  must  quickly  pass  away. 

Never  stop  to  mope  in  sadness, 

To  mourn,  and  sigh,  and  fret, 
Th  a  sinful  kind  of  madness, 

To  believe  your  star  is  set 
In  a  night  of  ho(>elcs8  sorrow ; 

Oh,  arouse,  and  t>oon  forget. 
In  the  stirring,  bright  to-morrow, 

Each  unworthy,  vain  regret ; 
Fortune  never  stoops  when,  sighing, 

The  suppliant  breathes  her  name ; 
At  her  feet  are  only  lying. 

For  the  brave,  her  wreaths  of  fame. 

What  though  the  friends  you've  cherished, 

And  the  hearts  that  were  your  own. 
And  the  dreams  your  fancy  nourished. 

Like  meteor  gleams  liave  Aown; 
The  soul  is  narrow  moulded. 

If,  it)  all  this  world  of  ours. 
Brighter  gems  arc  not  enfolded 

In  the  hearts  of  human  flowers, 
To  jrive  thee  at  the  a-king, 

Their  freshness  and  their  bloom, — 
If  but  earnest  smiles  were  basking 

Where  now  hangs  tliut  sullen  gloom. 

With  youth  and  health  distilling. 
In  that  manly  frame  of  thim^ 

The  blue  veins,  softly  liiiing 
With  life's  sweet,  rosy  wine. 


'TIS  naught  but  rank  inMoilj 

To  fold  the  arms,  and  sigfa 
O'er  the  faults  of  fnil  humanity. 

And  moan,  and  pimj  to  die; 
With  slaves  and  oowardA,  iieTcr 

Let  the  powen  you  postci 
Ignobly  sink  forever, 

In  the  slough  of  idlencM! 


A  WISH. 

O!  WOULD  I  were  a  poetl 
I'd  teach  mj  hatp  to  bremke 
Like  a  bright,  enchanted  tbi^ 
And  from  its  chords  nod  houam  Ikg 
The  sunny  layi  I'd  weave. 

O !  would  I  were  a  poet— 
Not  for  the  wreath  of  Fm» 
That  twines  around  a  poet'i  brew. 
Nor  the  homage  of  the  toob  Ihtf  Wv 
Unto  a  deathlees  name ; 


But,  oh  !  in  8orrow*i  trjhig 
"Tis  surely  sweet,  to  rava 
Afar  on  Fancy's  iris  wing. 
To  a  world  of  our  imagining 
All  pure,  and  bright  a^ 


I'd  be  a  poet — ah,  and  jet 
One  other  boon  I  eta 
A  pric(*less  gem,  that  is  not 
With  yellow  gold,  nor  is  it 
From  neath  the  ciyatal 

It  is  a  gentle  heart,  to  thiiB 
In  concord  with  mine 
To  hold  for  me  affection 
Abiding  love,  which  shall 
When  change-fian|^ 
flown. 


WILLIAM   W.  FOSDICK. 


LiAM  Whiteman  Fosdick  was  bom  in  the  city  of  Cincinnati,  on  the  twenty- 
day  of  January,  1825.  His  father,  Thomas  R.  Fosdick,  was  long  known  as  a 
nt  and  banker  of  that  city,  and  his  mother,  Julia  Drake,  as  an  actress  of  much 

The  boy  Fosdick  was  first  sent  to  school  to  Samuel  Johnson  of  Cincinnati, 
ird  to  the  Cincinnati  College.  He  was  at  this  time  more  remarkable  for  bright^ 
an  application ;  and,  though  frequently  proving  a  puzzling  case  to  the  pedagogic 
ras  known  amongst  his  fellows  as  a  generous  and  whole-souled  youth,  who 
I  all  meanness,  and  possessed  a  keen  wit 

Fosdick  was  graduated  at  Transylvania  University,  Lexington,  Kentucky,  and 
ately  went  to  Louisville  to  study  law  with  Gramett  Duncan,  of  that  city.  He 
ird  completed  his  studies  with  Judge  Pryor,  of  that  State.  He  began  the  prac- 
the  law  in  Covington,  Kentucky,  in  partnership  with  James  Southgate.  Ere 
i  took  up  his  residence  in  Cincinnati,  where  he  practiced  law  in  partnership  with 
i  C.  Williamson.  About  this  time  Mr.  Fosdick,  still  a  youth,  gained  some  dis- 
i  as  a  poet  by  a  dramatic  effort,  entitled  '^  Tecumseh,"  composed  merely  as  a 

to  histrionic  fame  for  one  of  his  friends.  Yet  his  first  real  appearance  in  the 
'  world  was  as  the  author  of  "  Malmiztic,  the  Toltec ;  and  the  Cavaliers  of  the 

a  novel  whose  fault  is  over-ornamentation,  whose  virtue  is  a  historic  fidelity 

owledge  which  cannot  be  found  outside  of  the  old  Spanish  histories  themselves. 

>8dick,  in  the  years  1847-49,  traveled  in  Mexico,  and  his  scenery  is,  therefore, 

1  and  brilliant.     We  trust  that  the  author  will  one  day  prune  and  simplify  this 

ting  romance,  and  that  it  may  be  reproduced.     This  work  was  published  in  the 

$51.     Soon  afterward  Mr.  Fosdick  went  to  reside  in  the  dty  of  New  York, 

he  remained,  in  the  practice  of  the  law,  for  seven  years.     Here,  in  the  year 

le  published  a  collection  of  poems,  entitled  "  Ariel,  and  other  Poems."     The 

ontains  the  last  works  of  illustration  from  the  pencil  of  the  celebrated  Dallas, 

A  in  every  way  an  elegant  production.     This  work  is  a  strange  medley,  and  is 

eristic  of  the  mingled  smiles  and  tears  which  make  the  inevitable  storm  and 

hich  blend  in  the  poet's  life :  for  life  has  been  made  a  battle  to  him  chiefiy 

1  the  fraud  of  those  who  should  have  been  most  generous  to  him. 

delicate  sprite  Ariel  is  taken  up  from  the  point  where  Shakspeare  leaves  him, 

Qowed  to  the  prison,  more  potent  than  that  inflicted  by  Syoorax,  of  Llama, 

In  other  words,  Ariel  loves ;  Air  feeds  Fire. 

Fosdick  has  resided  in  Cincinnati  for  the  past  three  years,  where  he  has  been 

?garded  as  the  City  Laureate.     Li  nearly  every  festival,  whether  of  pioneers, 

or  literati,  he  is  the  poet.     He  is  every  where  regarded  as  a  man  generous  to  a 

He  is  widely  known  as  a  lover  of  the  drama,  of  music,  and  every  kind  of  art 

(471) 


472 


WILLIAM    W.   FOSDICK 


He  is  at  present  editor  of  The  Sketch  Club^  an  illiutrated  papOi  amniorted  bj  ikr 
artists  of  Cincinnati  and  tlieir  iriends. 

Mr.  Fosdick's  poems  have  8o  long  tlown  through  the  West,  like  wiuggj  md,  mi 
taken  root  in  so  many  hearts,  that  we  need  not  produce  here  manj  qiecnMiL  H 
has  written  with  spirit  and  beauty,  a  number  of  poems  which  could  not 
spired  elsewhere  than  in  his  native  West-— of  which  ^  The  Maue,"  **  Tte 
and*' The  Pawpaw,"  are  specimens.  Ilis  songs  have  set  the  palMi  of  hIhr  i 
music,  and,  as  wedded  to  melixly  by  Vincent  Wallace  and  others,  hare  made  ■■■▼ 
nx)m  grow  stiller,  and  many  an  eye  moisten.  Tlie  verses  ^  Light  and  Nigll,*  pri 
lislied  May,  1860,  in  The  Dialy  a  monthly  magazine  of  Gncinnati,  are  a  fae  ■ 
tion  of  a  deeper  mood.  The  poem  **  Lute  and  Love,**  is  a  fiiir  spedmea  of  i 
lyric  grace. 


THE  MAIZE. 

A  80NQ  for  the  plant  of  my  own  native 
West, 
W^here  nature  and  freedom  reside. 
By  plenty  still  crowned,  and  by  peace  ever 
bless'd. 
To  the  com !  the  green  com  of  her  pride ! 
In  the  climes  of  the  East  has  the  olive  been 
sung; 
And  the  grape  been  the  theme  of  their 
hiys. 
But  for  thee  shall  a  harp  of  the  backwoods 
be  strung, 
Thou  bright,  ever-lieautiful  Maize  I 

Afar  in  the  forest  where  mde  cabins  rise, 

And  s<*nd  up  their  pillars  of  smoke, 
And  the  tops  of  their  columns  are  lost  in '  And  nibbling  the  grass  on  the  SOBBJ  H 
the  skies, 

OVr  the  heads  of  the  cl(»ud-kissing  oak — 
N<*:ir  the  skirt  of  the  grove,  where  the 
sturdy  arm  swings 

The  ax  till  the  old  giant  sways. 
And  echo  repeats  everj*  blow  as  it  rings. 

Shoots  the  green  and  tiie  glorious  ^laize ! 


And  snowy  the  cups  of  the 
burst 
By  the  red-bud,  with  pbk  taHei  tan; 
And  striped  the  bowb  lAiA  the  piph 
holds  up 
For  the  dew  and  the  sun's  jdkm  nn% 
And  brown  is  the  pawpaw's 
ing  cup. 
In  tlie  wood,  near  the 


When  through  the  daik  sofl  the  1^^ 
steel  of  the  plow 
Turns  the  mould  from  ila 
Tht*  plowman  is  cheered  bj  the 
the  bough, 
And  the  bhick-bii^  doth  feDow 
And  idle,  afiur  on  the  landscape 
The  deep-lowing  kine  tlowlj 


side 
Are  the  sheep,  hedged  away  from  ii 
Maize. 

With  spring-time,  and  caltavB^  ia  mtrii 
array 
It  waves  its  green  broad  awwds  aa  V^ 
And  fights  with  the  gale,  ni  a 


Tliere  buds  of  the  bu«'keye  in  Spring  are  fray. 


the  first, 
And  the  will(»w*s  gold  hair  then  ap|)enr8, 


And  the  sunbeams,  wUdi  611 
sky — 


ia5(V-60.] 


WILLIAM    W.    FOSDICK. 


473 


tX  strikes  its  green  blades  at  the  zephyrs  at 
noon, 
And  at  night  at  the  swift-fljing  fays, 
l¥ho  ride  through  the  darkness,  the  beams 
of  the  moon, 
Through  the  spears  and  the  flags  of  the 
Maize! 

Tfben  Summer  is  fierce  still  its  banners 
are  green, 
Each  warrior's  long  beard  groweth  red, 
His  emerald-bright  sword  is  sharp-pointed 
and  keen. 
And  golden  his  tassel-plumed  head ; 
As  a  host  of  armed  knights  set  a  monarch 
at  naught, 
They  defy  the  day-god  to  his  gaze ; 
And,  revived  every  mom  from  the  battle 
that's  fought, 
Fresh   stand  the  green  ranks  of  the 
Maize! 

Bat  brown  comes  the  Autumn,  and  sere 
grows  the  com. 
And   the   woods    like   a   rainbow   are 
dress'd. 
And  but  for  the  cock,  and  the  noontide's 
clear  horn, 
Old  Time  would  be  tempted  to  rest ; 
The  humming  bee  fans  off  a  shower  of 
gold. 
From  the  mullen's  long  rod  as  it  sways. 
And  dry  grow  the  leaves  which  protecting 
enfold 
The  ears  of  the  well-ripened  Maize. 

At  length  Indian  Summer,  the  lovely,  doth 
come, 
With  its  blue  frosty  nights,  and  days  still. 
When  distantly  clear  sounds  tlie  waterfall's 
hum. 
And  tiie  sun  smokes  ablaze  on  the  hill ! 
A  dim  vail  hangs  over  the  landscape  and 
iiood, 
And  the  hills  are  all  mellowed  in  haze. 


While  Fall  creeping  on,  like  a  monk  ^neath 
his  hood. 
Plucks  the  thick  rastling  wealth  of  the 
Maize. 

And  the  heavy  wains  creak  to  the  bams 
large  and  gray. 
Where  the  treasure  securely  we  hold, 
Housed  safe  from  the  tempest,  dry  shel- 
tered away, 
Our  blessing  more  precious  than  gold ! 
And  long  for  this  manna  that  springs  from 
the  sod. 
Shall  we  gratefully  give  Him  the  praise, 
The  source  of  all  bounty,  our  Father  and 
God, 
Who  sent  us  from  heaven  the  Maize ! 


THE  CATAWBA* 

0,  WEAK  are  words  to  well  express 
The  rich,  ambrosial  fraitiness, 
Catawba  I  of  thy  juicy  flood, 
Thy  delicate,  delicious  blood, 
Now  vermeil,  softer  in  its  dye 
Than  falls  in  from  a  rosy  sky. 
Through  chapel  windows,  just  as  dawn 
Looks  o'er  the  level  of  the  lawn — 
Now  topaz  lighted,  and  now  'tis  kissed 
With  tender  tints  of  amethyst, 
And  changes  in  the  sparkling  glass. 
Like  dew-drops  in  the  sunny  grass ; 
Next,  with  a  tinge  of  gold  endued. 
And  now  translucent,  amber-hued — 
Change  afler  change  so  swifl  succeeds. 
It  catches  roses  in  its  beads ! 
Ambrosial  essence,  excellent, 
Thou  nectar  of  the  Occident ! 

Long  may  the  green  leaf  brightly  shine 
Upon  those  sunny  slopes  of  vine, 


*  Dedicated  to  Nieholu  Lonfworth. 


474 


WILLIAM    W.    FOSDICK. 


[W 


Wliosc  vintage  unto  lubor  yields 
Returns  more  rich  than  han-est  fields — 
In  healthful  occupation  free, 
Rewards  well  honest  industry, 
Till  vineyard  cottages  are  made 
Tlie  homes  where  Plenty  smiles  in  shade. 
Long  may  the  lovely  valley  shine 
With  miles  of  waving  slopes  of  vine, 
Blushing  with  its  unpresAcd  wine, 
Wlu-re  luscious  clusters,  amber-clear, 
Under  the  purple  leaves  appear — 
Long  may  the  traveler  gladly  gaze 
On  lields  of  vine  and  fluttering  maize, 
And  see  Ohio's  valley  smile 
More  rich  with  han-ests  thim  the  I^ile, 
And  fmd,  though  Egypt  be  not  blessed, 
There's  com  and  wine  far  in  the  West. 


THE  PAWPAW. 


Of  old,  were  wool  through  thm  ktm 
roam. 
There  grows  the  greeiip  pnliihrf  pn; 

Broad,  brood  are  its  leaveii  and  as  f 
BA  the  sea, 
And  its  blossonu  are  chocolate  hell 
Wliere  booming  inside  is  the  ham  o 
bee, 
Like  the  roar  of  the  ocean  m  sheDi 
And  brown  as  a  wine-skin,  tnuufocM 
a  purse. 
Are  the  rinds  that  its  lidies  enfbU : 
A  heart  of  bright  yeUow-^-Uadc  icfd 
terspersed — 
A  fruit  of  ambrosia  and  goU! 

Oh !  white  are  the  caps  of  the  eidfl 
May, 
Tliat  gracefully  nod  o'er  the 
And  many  the  plumes  that  the 
display 
Of  velvety  crimson  intense ; 
And  the  Indian  arrow  has 


snows. 
That  bhames  the  red  benies  of  kaa 


I 


But  doubly  more  dear  to  mj 
those. 
Are  the  broad,  ribby  leaTCS  of  paay 


Asia  hath  banian  and  Afric  hath  palm, 
And  Europe  the  sweet-scented  haw ; 
The  isles  of  the  South  have  tlieir  forests  of 
balm, 
Where  blazes  the  brilliant  macaw ; 
Tile  icni  on  the  ground,  and  the  pine  on ' 

the  crest  :  Green  plant !  *mid  a  foivsl  of 

Of  the  mountain,  my  sympathies  draw  ;  gr**en. 

But  far  more  I  love  thee,  thou  phint  of  tht*!     Of  cottonwood  Titans  m  Mark. 
West, 
My  native,  my  backwoinl  pawjiaw ! 


Where    like  a  G>kissoa  the 
si*en. 
Through  summer,  with 


WhiTc  the  woodland  is  darkest,  so  dark  in  j         back  ; 

its  shade,  .And  huge  a1x)ve  all,  in  propoiliflBM* 

That  tlie  >un  on  the  roc  if  of  the  trees  That  dizzy  grow  upturaiM  ejei^ 

Can  only  ptM'p  through  where  a  parting  is. The  ]>ophir,  in  blossom*  floats  cot  ii  l 


bl:L<t, 
Like  an  island  of  bloom  hi  the 


made 
In  the  thatch  bv  the  hand  of  the  breeze; 
In  Kiiitiiekv's  deep  \vo<m1>,  where  niv  heart 

ha>  it^  Iionic.  Th.^re,  there  is  the  land  thatBopte^ 

WliiTc    the    llar-hiii^-rycd    hunter   and  supplant; 

>tpiaw.  No  nuigic  of  nature,  or  ail, 


SO-60.] 


WILLIAM    W.   FOSDICK. 


475 


in  ever  briog  such  a  majestical  haunt, 
Or  m J  youth,  once  again  to  mj  heart ! 
ad  the  eyes  of  the  maid  that  bewitched 

the  broad  shade, 
'Mid  the  greenery,  will  memory  draw, 
'here  the  rivulet  played,  and  the  wood- 
haunting  Naiad 
Made  her  home,  in  the  groves  of  paw- 
paw. 


LIGHT  AND  NIGHT. 

Out  through  the  loom  of  light, 
When  comes  the  morning  white, 
Beams,  like  the  shuttle's  flight. 

Other  beams  follow. 
Up  the  dawn's  rays  so  slant. 
Forth  from  his  roof  and  haunt. 

Darts  the  swart  swallow. 

Back,  like  the  shuttle's  flight, 
Sink  the  gold  beams  at  night ; 
Threads  in  the  loom  of  light 

Grow  dark  in  the  woof; 
All  the  bright  beams  that  bum 
Sink  into  sunset's  urn; 
Swallows  at  night  return 

Home  to  their  roof. 

Thus  we  but  tarry  here 
A  moment,  a  day,  a  year — 
Appearing,  to  disappear— 

Grosser  things  spuming, 
Departing  to  whence  we  came. 
Leaving  behind  no  name — 
Like  a  wild  meteor  flame. 

Never  retuming. 

Back  to  the  home  of  Grod 
Soul  after  soul  departs, 
And  the  enfranchised  hearts 
Burst  through  the  sod ; 


Death  does  but  loose  the  girth 
Buckling  them  on  to  earth, 

Promethean  rack ! 
Then  from  the  heavy  sod. 
Swift  to  the  home  of  Grod, 
The  Soul,  like  the  Shuttle  and  Swallow, 

flies  back. 

The  Swallow,  Shuttle,  Soul,  and  Light, 
All  things  that  move  or  have  a  breath, 

Retum  again  to  thee  at  night — 
To  thy  dark  roof,  0  ancient  Death  I 


WOODS  OF  THE  WEST.* 

Woods  of  the  West  I    Thine,  ever  thine, 
am  I; 
Thine    in    my    boyhood,    thine    more 
strongly  now — 
In  my  youth  my  heaven  was  just  beyond 
thy  sky. 
And  only  there  can  I  to  heaven  bow ; 
When,  with  a  star  upon  her  forehead  fair. 
The  dusky  Even  glides  along  the  West, 
When  swallows  ride  the  morning's  golden 
air, 
I  turn  to  thee,  as  to  my  mother's  breast 

Let  others  praise  their  climes  of  sun  or 
snow. 
Thou  art  the  land  of  green,  majestic 
groves. 
Where  fresh  seas  shine,  and  endless  rivers 
flow. 
Where  Spring  with  Sunmier,  Fall  with 
Winter  roves — 
There  seasons  meet  and  clasp  as  they  were 
friends ; 
And  the  dark  pigeon  from  the  land  of 
snow. 


*  Extract  from  a  poem  on  "  The  West,"  delinned  at  the 
AnniTenaiy  celebration  of  the  Sigma  Chi  Boeietj  of  Miami 
Unirerflity,  Ozfind,  Ohk>,  Jime,  1867. 


476 


WILLIAM    W.    F03DIC 


[!■» 


Wliere  wind  Atlantic  with  Pacific  blends, 
Mect8  the  white  sea-bird  from  the  Gulf 
below. 

In    those  green   woods    the   brave   with 
b<*autj  dwell, 
Nor  houseless  there  may  mortal  creature 
roam, 
The  conlial  welcome  and  the  frank  fare- 
well 
Greet  every  stranger  in   a  backwoods 
home. 
Our  cabins  may  be  rude,  uncouth,  and 
small. 
Still  i'reely  there  may  each  one  share  a 
part, 
For  Hospitality  extends  a  hand  to  all, 
And  with  that  hand  she  gives  a  back- 
woods' heart. 

Pines  may  be  green   upon   the   North's 

white  hills. 
Magnolias  blanched  in  many  a  Southern 

grove. 
Give  me  the  forest  which  the  wild  vine 

And   tulip-poplars    load    the  air  with 
love. 
Give  nio  the  West,  beneath  its  sun,  or 
moon, 
Its    white   December,  or  its  flowered 
lilay ; 
Give  me  the  hunter's  home,  the  land  of 
B<Mme, 
Wliore  generous  hearts  beat  music  night 
and  day. 

Loved  heart  of  this  broad  land,  no  one 
extreme 
Sheds    luster  sole   upon    this   nation's 
head ; 
Hut  when  the  lifc-blo(Mi  stops  in  thy  great 
stream, 
The  (tenter  dies,  be  sure  the  nation's 
dead. 


When,  at  last,  the  Pioiieen  are  gooc 
And  all  the  generoua  impuhw  thsy  k 

Vaniidi  like  flowen,  fading  ca  tte  kwa 
Toll  heaven's  bell— Ooiumfamii  aaBo 


LUTE  AND  U)T& 

Come  let  as  mg^^ 
Life's  silver  string 

But  half  its  songs  hath 
And  ID  the  soul 
Love's  golden  bofwl 

Lies  by  the  well  unbrakcB; 
Tlien  seixe  the  lute. 
Nor  deem  Mirth's  IMl 

The  apples  of  Gomomh^ 
Since  Joy  and  BBss 
The  teardrops  kis 

From  off  the  eheek  of  BantnL 


The  day  bat  showi 
Its  gloom  to  thosa 

Wlio  live  amid  repinii^  i 
Nor  night  so  daik 
But  some  bright 

In  shade  will  yet  be 
While  Winter's 
But  bring  the 

The  spring-time's 
Then  let  us  sfaig 
The  silver  striqg 

And  golden  bowl 


To  love  and 
Our  liven  belong 

Tliey  make  this  earth 
And  death  so 
Is  but  to  changa 

To  heaven's  brighter 
While  He  aboie 
Will  bless  the  km 

And  words  our  lips  hate 
And  we  riiall 
When  stiver 

And  golden  bowl  Ma 


I 


MARY   E.  NEALT. 


•  Elizabeth  Hare  was  born  in  the  city  of  Louisville,  Kentuckj,  December 

1825.     Her  father,  Peter  Hare,  was  a  mechanic     Her  mother,  whose  maiden 

LS  Margaret  Pickering,  died  while  Mary  was  nine  years  old. 

was  sent  to  the  public  schools  of  Louisville  from  the  time  she  was  seven 

1,  until  she  was  eleven.     She  made  unusual  proficiency  in  her  studies  for  one 

;,  in  consideration  of  which  she  received  the  first  premium  for  scholarship 

ach  of  the  last  two  years  of  her  attendance  at  school.     She  had  no  further 

ities  of  prosecuting  her  studies  under  the  direction  of  am&ster;  and  when  her 

lied  she  was  lefl  pretty  much  to  pursue  her  own  inclinations.     But  she  had 

acquired  a  thirst  for  knowledge,  that  urged  her  to  read  whatever  promised 

it     Of  course  she  read  much  that  was  useless,  but  her  mind  was  too  pure 

erful  to  feel  the  incumbrance  of  such  materials,  and  derived  continual  nour- 

and  means  ^of  growth  from  whatever  tended  toward  the  True,  the  Beautiful, 

1.     Although  her  ascent  was  through  the  mists  and  vapors  that  fioat  around 

3  spot,  which  men  call  earth,"  yet  her  own  clear  eye  saw,  upon  their  envelop- 

ns,  bright  rainbow  gleams  that  told  her  of  sunshine  and  daylight  above  the 

,  and  sustained  her  orphaned  spirit  in  its  unfriended  struggles  toward  them. 

Hare  was  married  to  Hugh  Nealy,  December  twenty-fifth,  1842,  in  Har- 

inty,  Indiana.     Her  husband  continued  to  reside  in  that  county,  where  he  held 

mportant  offices,  until  the  fall  of  the  year  1856,  when  he  removed  to  Lidian- 

He  has  been  peculiarly  unfortunate ;  soon  after  his  removal  to  his  present  resi- 

iving  been  permanently  disabled  by  a  railroad  accident     This  misfortune 

.  the  entire  burthen  of  supplying  the  wants  of  their  family  upon  his  wife. 

y  feeble  health,  limited  acquaintance,  and  almost  no  resources  at  all,  save  those 

Q  the  innate  force  of  her  own  soul,"  she  met  the  new  obligations  imposed  by 

&nd's  misfortunes,  with  firmness,  capacity  and  energy. 

lone  in  the  world  in  early  childhood,  she  became  ^'a  lonely,  isolated,  desolate 

ind  "sought  in  the  land  of  dreams  what  she  found  not"  in  the  real  world. 

le  friends  of  the  old  forest  trees,  the  streams,  the  clouds,  the  moon  and  stars, 

d  in  them  companions  far  dearer  to  her  melancholy  spirit  than  among  the 

of  men.     Apart  from  her  human  associates  she  often  read  or  dreamed  in  the 

evenings  and  quiet  moonlight,  until  life's  rough  places  to  her  seemed  smooth, 

glorious  gates  of  Paradise  but  just  beyond.     Nevertheless,  the  loneliness  and 

f  her  early  years  left  their  hues  ujwn   her  profoundest  being ;  face,  voice, 

poetry  and  life — all  are  colored  but  not  marred,  by  the  shadows  of  those 

pecters — Solitude  and  Sorrow.     Nor  has  her  subsequent  life  been  such  as  to 

lese  early  glooms.     But  as  the  light  of  night's  queen  is  rendered  more  glori- 

beautiful  when  it  falls  upon  us  through  a  gentle  vail  of  silver  clouds,  so  the 

(477) 


47S 


MAKY    E.   NEALY. 


[t^ 


mdiuni^G  of  her  soul,  while  m>A(*ik'(1,  id  inultiplied  and  rendered  ^inore  exqnuile 
by  the  li<;ht  iind  t^hudowy  vail  which  early  grief  has  drawn  over  it 

Mrs.  Ncaly  was  deterred  fn>m  publisliing  any  thing  during  her  youth,  and  ii 
end  years  atler  her  marriage,  by  exces:«ive  distruitt  of  her  own  abilitieB,  and  Uk  i 
f(*ar  of  the  censure  of  the  literary  world.  Her  difllidence  may  in  part  at  feaiC  1 
tributed  to  her  lonely  chihlhood,  and  in  part,  no  doubt,  to  her  sente  of  the  drfi 
ness  of  her  early  education.  To  these  more  tlian  to  any  feeling  of  natural  iai 
or  inirriority,  may  be  referred  her  studious  avoidAnce  of  the  public  apphuiae  or  ee 
likely  to  follow  the  first  appcaranc*e  of  a  young  author. 

I  ler  poems,  always  written  in  liaste,  and  under  cirenm^tances  utteriy 
nil  our  notions  of  study  and  reflection — in  the  midst  of  the  labors  and 
plexities  of  her  domestic  affairs,  were  received  with  very  genend  favor ;  and  th 
s(Mm  heard  and  recognized  by  the  literary  world  as  worthy  of  an  aMoei 
gif\(Kl  children  of  song.  The  Louisville  Journal,  the  Souik^m  Liierarf 
Southern  Lady's  Book,  Codec's  Ladys  Boot,  Srotfs  Weekljf^  and  other 
cciveil  and  welcomed  the  new  poet  to  their  columns ;  and  were  in  torn 
made  better  worthy  of  public  regard  by  the  contributions  of  her 
these  channels  ''The  Little  Shoe*'  and  other  poems  found  their  way  mto  the  Bi 
pai>er!t.  It  is  not  saying  too  much,  to  aflirm  that  they  are  worthy  of  aD  the  eoai 
ation  they  have  received. 


mind.    Tli 


THE  LITTLE  SUOE. 

I  ForxD  it  here — a  worn-out  shoe, 
All  mildewM  with  time  and  wet  with  dew ; 
Tis  a  little  thing; — ye  who  pass  it  by, 
AVith  never  a  thought,  or  word,  or  sigh ; 
Yet  it  stirs  in  my  spirit  a  hidden  well, 
And  in  elorjuent  tones  of  the  past  doth  tell. 

li  tills  of  a  little  fairy  form 
That  iHiund  my  heart  with  a  magic  charm, 
( )f  bright  blue  vy*':^  and  golden  hair, 
That  ever  :<Imm1  joy  and  sunlight  there — 
Ot'  a  |inittling  voi«'e  sti  sweet  and  clear, 
Aiiii  nt'  tinv  feel  that  were  ever  near. 

It  U']U  <ir  lidpes  that  witli  her  had  birth, 
l)t»ep  buried  now  in  the  silent  earth; 
( tf  :i  Iienrt  tliat  had  met  an  answering  tone 
AVhich  again  is  let\  alone — idonc! 


I  Of  days  of  watching  and  aniioas  pn^a 
Of  u  night  of  sorrow  and  daik 


It  tells  of  a  form  that  is  ooU 
,()f  a  little  mound  upon  yonder  fafll 
I  That  is  dearer  far,  to  a  mother'li  hsai 
I  Than  the  classic  statues  of  61 
Ah !  strangers  may  pass  with  a 

air. 
Nor  dream  of  the  hopes  thai  Bfl  M 
there. 

i 

Oh  ve,  who  have  never  o*er  IomI  fli 

wept — 
^\*liose  brightest  hopes  haTe  aeVr  b* 

swept 

Like  the  pure  white  clond  fi«a  AtB* 

ing  sky — 
Like  the  wn*ath  of  mist 

higli — 


1850-60.] 


MARY   E.  NEALY. 


479 


Like  the  rainbow,  beaming  a  moment  here, 
Then  melting  awaj  to  its  native  sphere ; 

Like  rose  leaves,  loosed  by  the  zephyr's 

sigh- 
Like  that  zephyr  wailing  its  perfume  by — 
Like  the  wave  that  kisses  some  grateful 

spot, 
Then  passes  away — ^yet  is  ne'er  forgot ; 
If  your  life  hopes  like  these  have  never 

fled. 
Then  ye  cannot  know  of  the  tears  I  shed. 

Ye  cannot  know  what  a  little  thing 
From  memory's  silent  fount  can  bring 
The  voice  and  form  that  were  once  so  dear. 
Yet  there  are  hearts,  were  they  only  here, 
That  could  feel  with  me  when,  all  wet  with 

dew, 
I  found  it  this  morning — this  little  shoe. 


THE  STARS. 

Sweet  "islands  of  the  bless'd ! " 
They  dreamed  in  the  olden  time. 
That  away,  far  away  in  the  distant  West, 
Was  a  land  where  the  weary  soul  might 

rest, 
Where  love  and  joy,  by  the    hours  ca- 
ress'd. 
To  the  sunlit  waves  made  rhyme : 

Where  the  fields  were  ever  green. 
And  the  bright  flowers  did  not  die, 
-And  where,  all  day  long,  'neath  the  eme- 
rald sheen 
Of  breezy  forests,  with  meads  between, 
-And  where  bird-songs  gushed  from  each 
leafy  screen, 
Tlie  world-worn  soul  might  lie : 

And  where  in  the  dreamy  eve 
They  might  sail  in  a  pearly  boat, 


And  tales  of  bright  enchantment  weave 
Of  a  land  whose  promise  they  could  be- 
lieve. 
And  where  never  a  sound  the  heart  to 
grieve 
O'er  the  coral  dells  might  float 

For  sorrow  was  all  unknown 
And  dark  death's  ghastly  fears ; 
And  no  yearning  spirit  walked  forth- 
alone  ! 
Bewailing  its  fate  like  the  sad  (Enone,* 
Filling  earth  and  air  with  its  bitter  moan, 
And  the  heart  with  its  unshed  tears  I 

But  ever,  the  whole  day  long, 
'Neath  the  morning's  warm,  bright  kiss, 
Or  the  gentle  night-bird's  love-toned  s<mg, 
The  soul  was  full  and  feared  no  wrong ; 
For  it  needed  not  hope  to  bear  it  along 
To  a  day  of  more  perfect  bliss. 

And  I  think  those  Western  isles 
Are  the  gems  in  our  Western  sky; 
For  naught  in  our  earth  so  sweetly  smiles, 
Or  if,  for  a  time  some  charm  beguiles, 
The  sad  soul,  sick  of  her  changing  wiles, 
Looks  up — for  the  Pure  and  High. 

And  now,  as  I  gaze  to-night 
On  those  blessed  stars  above, 
I  cannot  think  such  a  soft,  sweet  light 
Is  shed  from  a  land  where  the  mildew 

blight 
Warns  them,  e'en  at  the  dawning,  to  dread 
the  flight 
Of  their  brightest  dreams  of  love. 

It  surely  cannot  be — 

A  light  so  fair  and  pure ! 
Like  an  islet  of  gold  in  a  sapphire  sea, 
There's  one  that  twinkles  and  says  to  me. 


•  The  auUior  Is  awmie  that  in  Greek  irordi,  aU  the  Tow- 
els are  pronoimGed  dSitiiietij ;  bot  thif  ^e<ml4  tlid$  in  as 
itU! 


I«0  MABY    K,   SEALY. 

**  Omiic  hither!  Tve  ruom  for  FroruH  like.     Some  few  flowen  wiibfai  tl 
thpe--  {  Swe«tl7  blnon  for  mn 

Tliou  art  weary  of  eartli,  Fm  Hurc ! "  l^dy,  there's  a  vacant  eon 

Waiting  there  fi>r  Ihee 


O.  yen !  TH  come.  »weet  Btnr! 

With  ray  chosen  few,  to  thee:  \ 

Ami  lliin  llie  ffiililen  piti-s  we'll  bar.  j 

Ami  be  careful  never  to  leave  them  ajar,  I 
Fi)r  Mime  I  would  leaie  on  the  earth  afjir 

Would  be  eure  tu  follow  ine !  i 


TO  A  I,AUY. 

Ladt,  bright  and  fragrant  flowers 

In  my  g»rjeii  bloiiiii. 
Shi'diling  o'er  taj  lone  heart's  altar 

Rith  and  rare  perfume. 
Few  tlkey  are,  yi-t  life  without  them 

Scarcely  liie  wnultl  b»?, — 
Lndy,  yc-t  among  tlue^:  (low'reta 

There  is  room  fur  thee. 

Lailv,  love  hath  wove  a  garLuid 

'Uuund  lliia  boHrt  of  mine, 
Kricncl^hip  brin;ts  a  few  tiiir  b)o!>KunA 

In  the  wreath  to  twine. 
TIkv  are  more  lliiiii  iili  the  jewel' 

l\unh  eould  pivc  to  me — 
T„Hily.  here,  within  thiit  j^irland, 

If  a  ]ihiee  for  thee. 


Lutlj.  ever-blooming  g 

Komid  tUt  II 
Whit'h  will  lire  lill  death**  daik  i^ 

SliiU  Ihi"  heart  of  mine. 
Tet  eaeh  new  wmUh  raevis  a  wijIlmi 

Warm  and  tiue  from  me— 
Will  iIkiu  twine  an  ivy  cirdtl, 

Lady,  round  my  trae  t 


USRBST. 

Ab,  whj  K>  Md,  my  tool  I 
Ix  not  tliii'  bright  eanb   filM  with  M 

lhin<rs ': 
O,  are  they  vkulown,  Fathv.  fi^  H 
winir* 
That  o'er  my  tipiril  roll  ? 

Tliou'i'l  iilanted  in  my  l>r«H 
A  boundhvii,  deep 
For  nil  ihut's  bright  in  eaitk 


And  yet  1  find  no  x 


t! 


Luilv. 


img 


My  .'[lirit  wunder*  lone. 
Yeiimin)!  unil  striving  for  a 
O  K-ll  MKMell  why  tbu  «» 

For  that  I  bnre  not  know 


my  -i-iril'^  <l.-t>th* 

n  shrining 

Is  it  that  1  have  cone 

1-  ni'ii<l>hi|i  s  |nin-.»l 
.iiriii-l..'ams..rh.ii 

"'>'■                          Frt.m  HHiie  m.>if  blp«wd  woiU  dw  «■ 

en's  own  gindm-s.           j^f,„ 

OVr  my  life's  diirk 
<lv.  'mid  ihii-*'  nirlii 
|J<.  li..metorih.-<-. 

II  star-gems 

Atniil  yim  blading  orbii  is  ihct*  •  Mr 
WhiebioniynatiTehoaw? 

(>.mk<m<' home  once  man! 

■  h  .  lifr  » -T.-  lik.-  a 
llr  ii  iiiik.H|  Ir-M-, 

l.-.>rt. 

.  r.,I...-.  :,.uin  my  .^lirii-*  mishlj  wig^ 

ioIK-11.1-1  bv  Ihe  im 
l^,v,.  :md  Sjm|«,lh 

,-K 

e!i..-s 
Ami  lei  it  upward  aoar. 

MARY   E.  NEALY. 


481 


>w  it  seems  like  one 

down,  a  captive,  in  a  foreign  land, 

one  its  language  e'er  can  under- 

i,— 

lowing  and  unknown ! " 

hj  is  there  a  deep 
this  soul  which  they  can  never 
id- 
ling fountain  bound  beneath  the 
md, 
;  waters  cannot  sleep ! 

al  has  ever  striven 
an  elevation  where  its  breath 
ot  be  stifled  by  the  mould  be- 
h— 
)  it  could  dream  of  heaven. 

hen  it  upward  springs, 
y  its  very  godliness  to  soar, 
*k,  invisible  chain  forevermore 
down  its  yearning  wings. 

.  this  ever  be  ? 

aught  but  the  struggling  of  the 

the  bars  which  all  its  powers  con- 

Eun  its  liberty? 

lot,  cannot  be ! 

1,  0  God !  art  good  and  wise  and 

iieve — in  Thee  I  will  have  trust 
ve  may  yet  be  free — 

very  yearning  soul 

I  its  own  Utopia,  which  is  heaven — 

which  now  is  void  will  then  be 

n 

ree,  without  control — 

one  chain  shall  bind 

inchised  spirit — that  its  brightest 

ms 


Will  change  to  life  in  heaven's  refulgent 
beams — 
The  life  it  longs  to  find. 

O  let  me  always  think 
That  this  will  be !  Were  it  a  thousand  years, 
I  could  bear  all  life's  longings,  all  its  fears, 

At  such  a  fount  to  drink, — 

To  quench  the  burning  thirst 
That  ofl  has  raged  within  this  heart  of 

mine. 
For  weary  years,  and  met  no  answering 
sign. 
Till  it  has  almost  burst ! 

Father,  I  do  believe 
This  will  be  so.     And  in  this  faith  Fll  live, 
And  strive,  and  bear,  and  suffer,  and  forgive. 

And  long  no  more,  nor  grieve. 


"DO  I  LOVE  HIMT" 

Do  I  love  him  ?    Why  should  brightness 
Like  a  tide  of  glory  beam 

O'er  what  once  was  dull  and  irksome- 
Darkened  glen  and  shaded  stream  t 

Why  like  some  gay  lark  up-springing, 
Does  my  spirit  greet  the  sun  ? 

While  my  heart  keeps  singing,  singii^ 
Till  the  Eden  day  is  done— 
Is  this  because  I  love  him? 

Do  I  love  him  ?    One  soft  evening, 
When  the  nM)on  among  the  flowers 

Shed  her  wealth  of  light  and  shadow- 
Ebon  clouds  and  silver  showers ! — 

We  were  walking — ^both  were  silent — 
When  a  pure  white  rose  he  brake. 

Kissed  it  once,  then  gave  it  to  me, 
Ti*embled  I,  but  never  spake— 
Was  this  because  I  loved  him  ? 


31 


482 


MARY    K.  NEALY. 


[« 


Hv.  18  gono.     Yet  I  am  happy, 

For  I  know  hc*ll  come  again ; 
Like  a  bird  in  fragnint  bower 

Sing  I,  let  it  shine  or  rain. 
All  things  in  the  heaven  above  me, — 

Everj  thing  on  earth  beneath, 
Seems  to  whis|>er  "He  does  love  me."- 

Words  to  me  he  did  not  breathe — 
0 !  it  must  be  that  I  love  him! 


ADA. 

LoYELT,  little  blossom 

Of  the  darkened  earth, 
Chasing  from  my  bosom 

Sadness  with  thy  mirth ; 
Brightest  sunbeam,  wreathing 

'Uound  my  cloudcil  life ! 
Sweetest  song-bird,  breathing 

Balm  for  all  its  strife ! 

How  the  quirk  light  falling 

Of  thy  sinless  feet, 
And  that  clear  voice,  calling 

**  Mother,"  soft  and  sweet, 
Banish  deepest  sorrow 

From  my  heart  and  brow. 
Lifting  up  to-morrow 

Hope-crowned,  from  dark  now ! 

Earth  is  filled  with  beauties. 

Mountain,  stn*am  and  wold ; 
Lifo  is  fillefl  with  duties 

Stern,  and  dark,  and  cold. 
Yet  when  nil  is  dn*ary 

In  the  nrhin;:^  breast, 
Nature  to  the  weary 

Never  can  jrive  n*st. 

But  there  i-*  a  h**aling 

F(»r  the  wounded  sool ; 
Tis  when  'nwind  it  stealing 

Love*s  soft  murmurs  rolL 


Tliis  which  wremthei  the 
With  its  sweet  rowiMice ; 

This  which  makes  the  fbnatni 
Diamond-like  to  gbnoe. 

And  the  love  of  childhood 

Flows  like  yon  pore 
Sliaded  by  the  wiU- 

Free  from  paMsioD*« 
Gushing,  rippling;  wdKng 

From  the  fount  above^ 
To  the  lone  hemrt  tellmg 

Life, — yes^  life  is  lore ! 

Then  my  own  bright  Adi, 

Through  earth*! 
Sink,  like  some  Armada^ 

All  my  hopes  in  death. 
If  but  thou  art  nei 

Though  an  else  be 
Darling,  never  fear 

I  can  itill  liveonl 


YALENTDIB. 

As  the  spai^ling  wavelet, 

O  er  the  rocks  in  playltal  |^e^ 
As  the  joyous  snnlight,  tip|M^ 

With  bright  hues  the  dtek  oU 
As  the  moon's  soft  splendor 

0*er  the  dark  and  tpmbG^ 
Light,  bright  light  through 
ing 

Is  thy  smile,  dear  ooc^  ft 

But,  a«  on  tho«e  wareleCs 

Leave  the  rocks  to 
As  the  (folden  sanbeams,  Udi^ 

Leave  the  tree  of  beantj 
A>  the  gentle  moon,  declinii^ 

I^^aves  old  ocean's 
So  my  heart  is  erer 

When  by  fate  fraoi  thee  Tm 


ABRAM   SANDERS  PIATT. 


[  Sanders  Piatt  is  more  generally  known  to  the  political  than  the  poedcal 
["he  two  pursuits,  so  wide  apart  as  they  are,  seldom  center  in  one  individuaL 
Piatt  seriously  follow  either,  this  would  not  probably  be  the  fact  in  this  in- 
But  the  happy  possessor  of  broad  acres — and  beautiful  acres  they  are— 4n 
^eek  Valley,  Logan  county,  Ohio,  he  dallies  with  the  muses,  and  worries  the 
)  more  for  amusement  than  aught  else.  His  serious  moments  are  given  to 
)f  an  interesting  family,  and  the  cultivation  of  his  farm.  No  one  of  any  re- 
could  long  dwell  in  the  Macacheek  Valley  and  not  feel  more  or  less  of  the 
it  seems  to  live  in  its  very  atmosphere.     So  rare  a  combination  of  plain  and 

and  meadow,  adorned  by  the  deep  clear  glittering  stream  that  gives  name 
Iley,  seldom  greets  the  eyes.  There,  the  hawthorn  and  hazel  gather  in 
pon  the  sloping  hill-sides,  or  upon  fields,  while,  like  great  hosts,  the  many- 
3st8  of  burr-oak,  maple  and  hickory  close  in  on  every  side  the  view. 

the  Macacheek  without  its  legends  and  historical  associations.  Men  yet 
h  old  backwoodsmen,  with  heads  whitened  by  the  snows  of  eighty  winters, 

point  out  the    precise  spot  where  a  poor  Indian    woman,  seen    lurking 

smoking  ruins  of  the  Macacheek  towns,  only  then  destroyed  by  the  white 
was  shot  by  a  rifleman,  who  mistook  her  for  a  warrior, 
be  Piatt  homestead  may  be  seen  the  spot  where  Simon  Kenton  was  forced 
lel  enemies  to  run  the  gauntlet,  when  between  lake  and  river  lay  a  vast  un- 
ildemess.  It  was  near  this,  that  he  and  Girty,  the  renegade,  recognized 
;r,  and  the  hard  heart  of  the  murderer  was  touched  at  the  sight  of  his  old 
md  friend,  and  he  saved  his  life  at  a  time  when  this  bold  act  endangered  his 

mily  to  which  Mr.  Piatt  belongs  is  one  of  the  pioneer  families  of  the  Mad 
Iley,  and  has  prominent  association  with  the  literature  and  politics  of  the 
)onn  Piatt,  his  brother,  is  well  known  as  a  writer  and  political  orator.  Car- 
a  niece,  has  contributed  popular  articles  in  both  prose  and  verse  to  Western 
!S ;  and  John  J.  Piatt,  a  nephew,  of  whom  notice  is  hereafter  taken  in  these 
one  of  the  young  poets  of  the  West,  from  whom  much  is  expected, 
ders  Piatt's  poems  have  been  published  chiefly  in  the  Cincinnati  Daily  Com- 
ing, in  the  Macacheek  Press,  a  sprightly  weekly  paper,  published  at  West 
3f  which  he  is  now  the  editor. 


(483) 


484 


A.    SANDERS    PIATT. 


[US» 


THE  DAINTY  BEE. 

The  dainty  bee  'mid  waxen  celLi 
Of  golden  beauty  ever  dwells 

And  dreams  his  life  awuy ; 
IUa  food  a  million  flowers  caugbt 
From  out  the  sunlight,  as  they  wrought 

Through  spring  and  summer's  day. 

Slotliful  bee,  the  spring-time's  morning 

Wakes  him  from  his  winter's  dream, 
Reveler  'mid  the  pleat^ures  gathered 

From  the  wild-bloom  and  tlie  stream ; 
But  the  spring-time's  ray  of  ghidncss 

Culls  him  to  the  iields  agsiin. 
Culls  him  with  the  voice  of  flowers 

Flowing  'mid  the  sunlit  rain. 

Qoes  he  to  the  fickls  of  plenty, 

Searches  'mid  the  rare  p«.*rfume. 
Gathers  honey  from  their  beauty, 

While  he  sings  hi^  wanton  tune ; 
Filling  'mid  the  sweets  and  fancies 

That  o'erburthen  all  the  air. 
Gathering  dainties  for  the  palace 

Tlu&t  the  queenly  group  may  share. 

Drunk  with  treasures,  overladened. 

Slow  he  wings  his  way  along. 
Gladdens  all  the  scenes  with  humming 

O'er  his  dainty  little  song. 
Wanton  bei»,  ah  !  busy-lKKly, 

Drinking  from  eacli  pi'rfumed  cup. 
All  day  straying  in  the  valley 

Gathering  sweets  to  treasure  up. 

Lives  he  in  a  world  of  lM*auty,  ' 

Floating  on  its  rare  perfume, 
Sipping  May-time's  early  blossoms. 

Reveling  in  the  bed  of  June ; 
In  the  snows  amid  the  clover, 

Diiinty  snows,  how  sweet  and  shy! 
Thn'ttded  with  the  green  of  summer, 

IVrfumed  frosts  of  mid  July ! 

Thy  home  is  Nature's  world-wide  palace, 
Nature's  wild  secluded  ways. 


Lit  with  night's  dews,  dream  of 
Wakened  with  a  millkia  iBy% 

Sec  the  sunlight's  silrer  fingers 
Lifting  fragrance  to  the  skjp 

Fill  the  vale  witli  many  rare  joyi 
As  they  slowly  waft  them  by; 


Scents  the  air,  thy  wingi  to 

Guides  thee  to  the  treaMU 
Airs  that  play  the  rare»C  miuic^ 

For  buch  dainty  epicure. 
Labor,  while  the  summer  Ungenii 

Labor,  while  the  south-wind  hkm^ 
Ere  the  North  King,  marching  foaiki 

Fills  thy  garden  with 


SING,  CRICKET. 

Sing,  cricket,  sing  your 

We'll  have  some  chat 
The  snow  and  rain,  againrt  the 

Proclaim  a  change  of 
The  long  blue  grass  haa  hXkm 

Pressed  closely  to  the  eavA; 
Then;  are  no  summer  spoCa, 

lias  chilled  your  songs  of 
The  lily  with  im  goigeous 

Decked  blue  and  white  and  goH 
Has  crept  back  to  the  earth 

Chilled  with  the  autumn 
And  thou  art  left,  tboa  btuway 

So  eome  in  to  the  fire : 
( let  you  into  your  little  oell<^ 

For  winter  tune  your  lyre; 
And  throu^rh  its  weary 

Ot'  hearts  tliat  k>ved  ns 
Of  (towers,  and  their  birth  i 

That  weaveu  life's  hnj  apalL 


Sing,  crieket,  sing,  from  out 
Thou  hermit  of  the  hearth ; 

Mon*  joy  about  your  m^ 
Than  in  the  winecop'a 


] 


A.    SANDERS    PIATT. 


485 


sj  housewife  plies  her  cares 
uties,  as  thej  chime 
r  glad  notes  that  cheerful  float, 
with  her  footfalls  rhyme. 

icket,  sing ;  old  sympathies 
e  more  than  palace  halb 
rth-lit  scenes  that  round  me  rise 
drape  the  cottage  walls 
ictures  of  the  past  so  true : 
^  flow  from  out  thy  chimes — 
5  you  cite  their  wonders  o'er, 
I  chronicler  of  times. 

ecromancer  of  the  hearth, 

'aves  thy  mystic  wand, 

Is  invoke  the  genii  of 

sunmier's  fairy  band, 

1  their  winter  cells  do  dwell, 

nestlings  of  the  earth, 

read  their  leaves  upon  the  air 

n  spring  to  love  gives  birth. 

thy  sunny  wanderings, 
r  harvest  treasure  fling 
ields  of  russet,  ripened  grain, 
n  chimed  the  bells  you  ring 
wedding  of  the  flowers, 
)  a  cunning  fay, 
lught  from  sunlight  colors  rare 
obe  them  while  they  stay. 

ricket,  sing ;  your  merry  chirps 

o'er  the  pleasant  days 

jwn  the  stream  of  time  have  gone ; 

r  song  their  joy  portrays, 

athered  round  the  heart  to  win 

moment's  golden  dust — 

all  life's  duties  thronging  came 

1  faith  and  love  and  trust 

ricket,  sing ;  within  my  heart 
cells  thy  song  doth  thrill, 
ices  that  from  memory  start, 
vacant  seats  to  fill. 


Around  my  soul  their  arms  are  twined, 

Like  angel  wings  that  lift 
The  heart  from  sin,  with  gentle  words — 

Spirits,  of  hearth-stone  gift. 

Softly  sing  of  diilly  showers 

That  damped  the  genial  flame, 
And  took  bright  lights  from  off  the  hearth, 

That  left  us  all  in  pain, 
Though  not  alone:  the  absent  ones 

Yet  dwell  within  our  heart, 
And  ever  as  thy  song  doth  ring 

To  life  they  warmly  start. 


DAISIE. 

Could  yaa  but  list  the  waterfiJl, 

Its  laughing,  willful  song ! 
How  years  now  gone  its  tones  recalli 

While  gurgling  swift  along  I 
It  tells  thy  name — its  words  repeat 

(The  past  lives  o'er  in  this) 
The  quickening  of  thy  heart's  soft  beat, 

When  parting  fttim  my  kiss. 

Ah,  Daisie  1  know  the  birds  ;f  et  skig, 

Above  the  water^s  flow ; 
They  warble  blithely,  on  the  wing, 

Of  times  now  long  ago. 
While  flitting  there,  sweet  Daisie  dear. 

They  stole  thy  heart's  song-nest; 
To  me  'tis  left  but  to  revere 

The  birds  and  streams  so  bless'd* 

Another  love  has  won  thy  heart. 

But  not  thy  gentle  ways : 
They  live  within  these  scenes  apart, 

The  theme  of  other  days. 
Ah,  it  is  mine ;  the  birds  and  stream 

Yet  tell  it  o'er  to  me ; 
How  sweet  it  b!  though  but  a  dream 

Within  my  heart  to  be. 


WILLIAM  P.  BRANNAN. 


William  Penn  Bkannan  is  the  only  poet-painter,  native  to  Ohio^  cff  «T 
Kiave  knowledge.  He  was  bom  at  Cincinnati,  on  the  twentj-deoood  daj  cff  U 
the  year  1825.  His  father  was  a  farmer,  and  his  early  opportuniliet  Ar  r 
were  limited.  He  is  not  only  self-instructed  as  a  schokir,  but  as  a  povtnft^ 
scape  painter,  and  he  has  good  n*ason  not  to  be  ashamed  of  his  teadier.  '  ft 
nan  is  a  regular  poetical  contributor  to  several  leading  literary  jooriMliJi^ 
author  of  humorous  sketches  in  prose,  which  have  been  read  whemif  A 
newspapers  are  circulated.  He  is  at  present  practicing  his  art  in 
understood  that  he  is  preparing  an  elaborate  poem  for  publication  in  a 


THE  SOUL'S  HERMITAGE. 

I  HATE  a  hermitage  of  common  clay. 
Wherein  are  treasures  neither  rich  nor 
rare. 

Yet  sacred  relics  to  my  life  are  they, 
And  hoarded  up  in  secret  caskets  there. 

My  pilgrim  soul  resides  there  all  alone, — 

Its  weary  years  of  wild  unrest  are  o*er ; 

Now  soiled  and  travel-worn  from  many  a 
zone. 

And  vain  researches  on  the  sea  and 

shore. 

No  prying  eyes  look  through  the  portals 
there — 
No  shameless  pleasure  tempts  the  soul 
within ; 
Despair  without,  must  still  remain  despair; 
I  have  no  room  for  any  pleading  sin. 

In  dim  past  shadows  of  a  distant  mom, 

I  still  can  see  the  budding  of  ray  years. 
Still  hear  my  ho|)eful  K)ngs  or  sighs  for- 
lorn, 
Still  see  the  rainbow  iu  life's  morning 
tears. 


Within  this  hermitage  mj 

Lives  o'er  again  the  ttarmfjii*' 

And  nerves  itself  for  that 
>Vhere  puny   man 
strife ; — 


Lives  o'er  again  the  wild. 
That  played  with  golden , 
my  brain. 
And  swept  with  dire 

lime  i*^ 

The  diapnson  of  all  joj  ^aMfM 

1  entertain  no  stranger  onasiHi^li 

Within  my  aouI's 
No  guest  but  Death  may 

No  vmidal  foot  shall 


No  one  can  sliare  in  aD  o^ 
No  eye  may  see  mj 

On  bi'ggur  palms  no 
Of  sacred  relics^  or  of 


My  house  of  clay  standi 
Oblivion's  stream 

U|)on  the  summit  of  tlua 
The  sons  of  Fame 
ing-place. 


(486) 


1 


WILLIAM    P.    BUANNAN. 


487 


may  write  my  name  upon  their 

3ll, 

e  the  glories  of  their  temple  fair ; 

:an  hear  those   thund'rous  voices 

godlike  anthems  through  the  echo- 
air. 

jrlook  the  world  a  little  way, 

sles  of  palm  and  hlooms  forever 

jet, 

the  rising  of  the  orient  day, 

sing  low  murmurs  in  my  safe  re- 

it 

d  midland  of  my  souFs  domain, 

e    retreat   from   envy,   hate   and 

ra; 

;  me  close  my  simple  hermit  reign, 

*est  in  quiet  till  the  coming  morn. 


THE  OLD  CHURCH  ROAD. 

►ING  tlirough  the  everglade, 
e  my  school-boy  scenes  were  laid ; 
the  meadow  where  the  bees 
heir  thefts  to  every  breeze ; 
e  the  woodland  flowers  bloom, 
ng  all  their  sweet  perfume  ; 
ig  by  a  cottage  door, 
alas,  my  home  no  more ; 
ng  to  the  house  of  God, 
blessed  Old  Church  Road. 

ished  in  a  bower  of  green, 
er  spire  is  dimly  seen, 
a  sentry  from  on  high 
ing  upwai*d  to  the  sky  ; 
It  pleasant  ambuscade, 
Lered  with  the  sun  and  shade, 
s  the  churcli  where  fii*st  I  trod 
J  way  that  leads  to  God ; 


Now  I  drag  life's  weary  load 
Up  along  the  Old  Church  Hoad. 

I  have  come  to  see  once  more 

The  dear  haunts  I  loved  of  yore ; 

Comrades  of  my  early  years, 

Where  are  now  your  smiles  and  tears — 

Smiles  of  welcome,  tears  of  joy, 

Greeting  home  the  long  lost  boy  ? 

Silence  palls  my  listening  ear, 

No  iiuniliar  sound  is  here. 

On  the  grave-stone  gray  and  cold 

The  sad  tale  is  briefly  told ; 

They  have  spent  their  latest  breath 

In  the  holiday  of  death  ; 

Tired  with  life,  they  fell  asleep 

Leaving  me  alone  to  weep. 

Who  would  fain  lay  down  life's  load 

With  them,  near  the  Old  Church  Road. 

Cruel  mem'ry,  let  me  deem 

This  is  but  an  idle  dream  I 

There  was  one— oh,  heart,  be  still ! — 

Wont  to  wander  near  the  rill. 

Murmuring  yet  along  the  glade 

Where  our  plighted  vows  were  made  — 

There  was  one,  the  maiden  queen, 

Reigning  o'er  this  sylvan  scene, 

Who  had  strayed  from  paradise, 

With  the  splendor  of  its  skies 

Sleeping  in  her  dewy  eyes. 

Never  more  must  I  rejoice 

In  the  music  of  her  voice  ? 

Must  the  pilgrim's  lonely  tread 

Wake  but  echoes  o'er  the  dead. 

As  he  nears  his  last  abode. 

On  the  blessed  Old  Church  Road  ? 

Where  the  modest  violets  blocnn 
In  the  shadow  of  her  tomb, 
Shall  the  wayworn  wanderer  rest, 
Deeming  death  a  welcome  guest  ? 
Life's  last  sleep  were  passing  sweet 
Where  his  dust  with  thine  shall  meet — 
There,  beneath  the  self-same  sod. 
Lay  him,  near  the  Old  Church  Road. 


4K8 


WILLIAM   P.  BRANNAN. 


[IM 


LOST  YOUTH. 

A  STRAIN,  like  songs  of  dying  swanA— 
A. fragment  of  forgotten  rhyme — 

A  vision  of  the  gliostly  dawns, 
That  woke  me  in  the  olden  time 

To  hopeless  love  and  cruel  scorns* 
And  thoughts  of  unforgiven  crime. 

Thus  come  the  memories  of  tlie  past, 
With  faded  light  and  smothered  joys ; 

With  daring  hopes,  too  bright  to  la«(t, 
With  peals  of  fame — now  empty  noise, 

Witli  high  aspirings,  grand  and  vast, 
My  hopeless  soul  no  more  enjoys. 

Like  Indian  Summer's  azure  air, 

And  music  heard  in  holy  dreams- 
Like  voices  lost  in  silent  prayer. 

And  murmurings  of  distant  streams. 
Come  back  those  days,  when  life  was  fair, 
With  muffled  sounds  and  hazy  gleams. 

Within  my  soul  the  memory  preys ; 

My  lost  youth  was  a  dream  of  fame. 
Those  half-forgotten,  wildering  days. 

When  I,  too,  sought  to  win  a  name. 
Give  but  the  phantom  sounds  of  praise — 

Tlie  knell  of  what  I  fain  would  claim. 


REPENT  ANGE. 

On !  human  souls,  throw  wide  your  doors ! 

A  fellow  mortal  pleads  his  pain; 
With  anrruish  bow«Nl  he  fnin  implores 

His  prayer  be  not  in  vain. 

S<»ino  dn)ps  of  heavenly  pity  sh«*d 
OVr  errin;:  souls  that  «ro  astray, 

Lift  up  a  (InM)piiig  1)n)tli4T's  liead 
And  |K)iut  the  bc'tt<'r  way. 


O  boast  not  loudly  nor  elate 

Thy  power  o'er  sin  and  bamaa  wmi 
Tliy  strengtii  to  show  thj  broChei's  te. 

Thy  faith  and  virtue  strong. 

For  know,  a  man  of  gentlest  noaU 
Some  giant  sin  may  lead  astray. 

With  mighty  power  and  demon  hold. 
With  fierce  and  fiendish  sway. 

0,  gentle  hearts,  throw  wide  yoar 
And  let  the  pleading  stranger  h; 

A  wayworn  pilgrim  fain  imploics 
Release  from  shame  and  sin. 


I  HAVE  a  home  no  more.    The 
cot, 
That,  like  a  modest  bride  Uf 

flowers, 
Smiled  all  its  blessings  on  life*si 
hours, 
lias  passed    from 
own  the  spot. 
The  guardian  power  that  lioUs  mj 
trust, 
Still  shows  the  picture  to  wmj 

view. 
And  paints  the  blessed  fbnM^toi 
true, 
Wliich  long  have  slept  in 
All  things  have  c 
no  more — 
Tlie  favorite  haunts 

spairs,  and  loves 
Ono<^  circled  round  mj  soul  Bke 
doves. 
The  gkiss  of  Fancy  only 
The    alien    plowshare,    lor 

years. 
Has  made  deep  fnnowa  br  mj 
tears. 


i 
h 


U 


BENJAMIN  T.  GUSHING. 


MiN  TupPER  Gushing  was  bom  at  Putnam,  Muskingum  county,  Ohio,  on 
ty-sixth  day  of  January,  1825.  His  ancestors  were  among  the  pione^ 
'  the  North- West ; — Rufus  Putnam  and  Benjamin  Tupper,  of  the  maternal 
ing,  at  the  close  of  the  war  for  Independence,  settled  at  Marietta,  while  his 
mcestors  early  emigrated  from  Plymouth,  Massachusetts,  to  the  central  part 
ate  of  New  York.  His  father,  at  the  age  of  sixteen  years,  came  to  Ohio, 
d  at  Putnam.  When  ^ye  years  of  age,  Benjamin  was  placed  at  school  at 
Drilled  with  a  class  of  boys  superior  to  himself  in  respect  of  years  and 
icipline,  he  Ured  of  the  class  routine,  and  sought  for  himself  a  course  of  study 
ited  and  (!bngenial.  At  the  age  of  twelve,  upon  the  removal  of  his  father^s 
Wisconsin,  he  entered  a  printing-office  at  Milwaukee.  In  1839  he  returned 
md  pursued  his  trade  in  the  Ohio  Slate  Journal  office,  at  Columbus.  An 
to  read  whatever  fell  in  his  way,  and  a  searching  inquisitiveness  as  to  the 
»r  opinions  expressed  by  authors  whose  works  he  perused,  became  habits  of 
cter.  The  result  was  a  constant  tendency  to  clothe  with  verse  the  offspring 
lint  and  sleepless  fancy,  and  many  hundred  folio  pages,  then  written,  bear 
» its  fertility  and  range,  if  not  to  its  cultivation  and  discipline.  At  Milwaukee 
here,  his  verses  were  welcomed  by  the  Press,  and  answered  with  cordial  en- 
ent  of  the  author's  aspirations.  The  turning-point  in  his  career  came  sud- 
[  decisively.  An  incident,  in  itself  unimportant,  furnished  the  spur  to  his 
purpose,  and  gave  birth  to  the  idea  of  a  sacred  poem,  which  thenceforth 
vital  element  in  his  plans,  and  rapidly  unfolded  the  deep  and  tender  sympa- 
pervaded  his  character.  Resolved  at  last  to  fit  himself  for  a  station  where 
^  at  least  enjoy  the  society,  if  he  might  not  partake  of  free  converse  with 
minds,"  he  lefl  the  printing-office.  Within  eighteen  mcmths  he  completed 
nan  and  sophomore  routine  of  classical  study,  and  entered  the  junior  class  of 
College,  in  1844.  His  college  career  realized  his  ambition.  He  continued 
iis  of  the  British  classics — ^finished  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  together  with  a 
w  course,  and  graduated  with  the  highest  honors  of  his  class.  He  studied 
Joseph  R.  Swan  and  John  W.  Andrews,  at  Columbus,  during  the  year  1847. 
nission  to  the  bar,  he  practiced  his  profession  for  a  few  months  in  the  office 
n  P.  Chase,  at  Cincinnati,  but  returned  to  Columbus,  during  the  year  1848, 
irpose  of  making  it  a  place  of  permanent  residence.  He  had  entered  upon 
ision  with  energy,  while  at  the  same  time  pursuing  his  literary  tastes  into 
ist  fields  of  prose  and  verse,  and  had  just  begun  to  enjoy  the  long-coveted 
men  of  cultivation,  and  a  wide-spread  credit  as  a  good  writer,  through  con- 
to  the  standard  magazines  of  the  country,  when  bronchial  diffiSulties  inter- 

(489) 


49U  BKNJAMIN   T.   CL'SUING.  [1 


ruptcd  the  regular  pnictice  of  liLs  profei>sion.  He  devoted  fievend  ■cMoni  to 
n^iiovul,  nitumiiig,  at\er  brief  intervals  of  nu^lical  treatment^  to  hu  liteimiy  and  kpl 
studies.  The  former  began  more  fully  to  interest  lii:»  utlentimi,  and 
energies.  Though  many  qualities  of  his  miud  crmspired  to  moke  kim 
a  good  prose  writer,  tlie  li«-id  whenrin  his  hopes  were  garnered  wa^  thai  oi 
llt-re,  however,  the  nijiidity  of  his  e<lu<.!ation  had  letl  his  discipline  impeHect.  lai  kt 
felt  that  he  wrott)  too  (K>piousiy  ibr  that  [)erfeetion  of  style  which  he  made  lit»  aia 
Thus,  when  emotion  was  wanting,  his  hurriinl  verges  lR*iiinic  artislic  (Mdj,  or  ■crab 
eoniinon-phiee.  But  when  the  heart  was  touehe<l,  he  wrote  with  taMe  and 
in  the  midst  of  self-examination  and  discipline,  the  cherished  idea  of  hid  mm^riI 
giiinrd  new  favor,  and  he  ri'gretted  more  and  more  that  he  hud  nul  selected  the 
ministry  sls  his  profession — that  thus  he  might  have  been  brought 
near  the  subject  of  hit»  epic. 

During  the  fiUl  of  lb -19,  Mr.  Cu>hing*0  bronchial  difficult ie4  relumed,  and  ii  fftt 
January  Ibllowing,  he  visited  Wilmhigton,  North  Carolina,  to  ^eek,  in  a  cbaBp  ^ 
climate,  their  ix'lief.  Hitherto,  he  had  been  cheerful  under  all-  trialtf,  hot  uk  m 
presoion  that  he  must  die  young,  at  length  broke  with  crushing  weight  upon  hk  ^pra 
and  ibr  a  few  diiys  he  failetl  nipidly.  The  ^  Lay  of  the  ImproTiaatrioev''  a  patmd 
rare  exei^llence,  pathos  and  beauty,  then  written,  telLi  plainly  the  feeling  lint  i^ 
pressed  him. 

^  The  Christ iad  '* — the  title  which  he  had  given  hU  sacred  poem- 
his  attention.     Shapes  and  scenes  starthrd  into  being  by  the    iniluenee  of 
Dante,  iloiner,  and  Swedenl>org,  and  to  which  he  had  given  wliole  nights  of 
contemplation — imagery  and  sentiment,  guthen'd  fn>m  observation  and  lefleefio^H* 
rose  bcfon^  his  mind  like  realities.     The  l^ible,  long  studied  in  its  rehtfioni  M  hi 
tlieme,  became  his  i*onstant  companion.     Tlie  prnphecies  were   examinedv 
hannoiiy  witli  the  Saviours  character  brought  into  n'qui^ition  to  enrich  the 
**  mailf  {KTirct  tlirough  sutferiiig.'*     I'rgent  appeals  to  di.-miss  care  and 
only,  Were  answt>n'd  cheerfully,  but  in  the  ^pirit  of  his  labom.     At  length, 
Atlantic  brei'zes  only  pnojudicial,  he  tried  the  hydix>p:uhic  treatment, 
Vcriiuiut,  but   without  beiH'tit.     Pulmonary  di.-«eiu«e  had  aln*ady  fi^^^fwud  wftm  hi 
vitals.     Hut  tlu*  mind  was  still  active — too  active.     The  night  itself  was  Ball  hi 
servant,  and,  a>  before  leaving  home,  so  at  Bnitth'lKjni,  he  would  i^udilenlj  sttrt 
bi'd  to  H'f'ord  the  monr  fanta-^tic  and  h*ss  studieil  fancies  tluit  played  through  the 
while  till'  body  (Muirted  ri*iN)se.     He  spent  a  month  with  friend«  at  WalliaffcrLO^  i 
necti<'Ut,  and  though  Um  ill  to  pursue  metluMlically  his  **  Christ  iad,**  still  i 
nmd4)in  verses.     He  h*ft  Waliingfonl  early  in  SeptenilxT,  amL  after  a  long/ 
n'ached  his  native  home,  still  full  of  hope  and  mental  vigvir,  though  «— *y"«g 
;     tin*  irrave. 

SiK'li  i<  the  faint  outline  of  a  life  dovote<l  to  a  single  purpose,  uid 
for  it-  fniitiun  the  en<-r;;\  iif  a  niatun?  lite.     It>  gn'atness  w:ui  appreciated, and iv i*  '• 
gn  athi'--^  lie  iiilloxMMl  it,  eonfnlent  that  he  might  at  least  realize  a  high  cnhhnlMifl' 
noMe  ari|uir(inents  in  hs  purMiit.    In  the  comnmnity  where  he  lived,  he  waSRfvM  t 


1850~6a] 


BENJAMIN   T.   GUSHING. 


491 


as  a  man  of  good  talents,  energy,  and  perseverance,  and  his  manlj  aspirations  inter- 
ested many  in  his  success.  His  character  was  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  true  religion. 
To  its  claims  he  sacrificed  first  impulses,  if  they  shrank  from  a  test  by  its  standard. 
From  its  sacred  oracles  he  drew  the  great  lesson  of  our  probation.  In  its  precious 
encouragements,  his  hope  brightened.  In  its  anticipated  future,  he  had  a  foretaste  of 
his  reward.  In  the  study  of  the  perfections  and  earthly  experience  of  its  Author,  he 
prepared  for  nobler  and  lof\ier  ascriptions  of  praise  to  his  divine  Redeemer.  He 
lingered  but  a  few  weeks  at  Putnam ;  yet  his  last  thoughts  were  upon  his  life's  great 
hope ;  and  the  disposal  of  the  unfinished  ^  Christiad "  was  the  burden  of  his  last 
whisper,  as  the  spirit  for  a  moment  lingered,  then  took  its  upward  flight.  May  we 
not  justly  repeat  the  sentiment  so  beautiiiilly  addressed  by  himself  to  the  mother  by 
whose  side  we  laid  his  remains  ?  He  ^  has  learned  the  poetry  of  heaven  from  tlie 
lyres  of  the  archangels !  ^ 


LAY  OF  THE  IMPROVISATRICE. 

"  The  spell  of  Death  is  on  me ! "  I  have 
heard 
In  dreams  the  rustling  of  h'ls  shadowy 
wing 
Above  me  like  a  prophecy !     The  bird 
That  wakes  his  carol  in  tlie  breath  of 
Spring, 
Knows  not  more  surely  that  his  joy  is  nigh 
Than  my  sick  spirit  that  I  soon  must  die ! 

My  eye  is  bright,  they  tell  me,  and  my 

cheek 
Wears  still  the  rosy  color  that  it  wore 
When  life's  full  tide  glowed  through  each 

pulse,  to  speak 
In  eye  and  cheek  as  they  shall  speak  no 

more; 
It  is  a  feverish  brightness — day  by  day 
The  inward  fii'C   consumes  my  strength 

away! 

Time  was  when  I  had  sighed  to  leave  the 
earth, 
With  all  its  beautiful  and  glorious  things ; 


Its  babbling  streams,  its  masic  and  its 
mirth. 
Its  pastures  green,  and  birds  with  rain- 
bow wings ; 

Hope  was  beside  me  then,  and  from  her 

eyes, 

My  spirit  borrowed  all  their  iris  dyes ! 
I  walked  upon  the  mountain  like  a  nymph, 

Drinking  the  breeze  and  nourishing  the 

flowers 

With  dews  as  lucent  as  the  crystal  lymph; 

With  joy  I  trod  the  shadowy  noontide 

bowers; 

Bright  smiled  young  Evening  through  her 

twilight  bars. 

And  I  beheld  glad  spirits  in  the  stars, 

That  held  communion  with  me — and  my 
soul 
Had  its  deep  thoughts  and  dreams  an- 
utterable 
In  common  language — ^and  I  dared  the 
goal 
Of  poesy— filled  the  bright  goblet  fiiU 
Of  the  delirious  wine,  and  deeply  quaffed 
The  inspiration  of  the  glorious  draught  I 


492 


BENJAMIN   T.  CUSHING. 


[ 


I  k>iig<Ml  to  be  iminortal ;  longed  to  be 
Like  Sapplio,  curly  lost ! — or  Ilemans, 
gone 

In  light  eternal — and  weave  minstrelsy 
Such  as  could  charm  to  life  th*  ^  Undy- 
ing One,* 

Or  tliat  bright  spirit's,  who,  on  Avon's 
sliore, 

Made  Avon's  swans  ^deem   Sliakspeare 
lived  once  more ! " 

But  not  alone  my  fancy  soared  to  reach 
The  heaven  of  Invention — there  was  one 

Whose  lightest  whisper  to  my  soul  could 
teach 
A  thrilling  music— one  whose  every  tone 

Came  o*er  my  spirit  like  the  fitful  wing 

Of  the  soft  zephyr  o'er  th'  .^olian  string ! 

In  my  gay  rambles  at  the  mom  or  eve 
lie  wandered  by  my  side — knew  all  my 
dreams 

Of  passion  or  of  poesy— <»uld  grieve 
When  I  did  grieve — joy  in  my  joy's  glad 
streams ; 

He  souglit  my  flowers,  foreran  my  slight- 
est want, 

Nor  a^ked  return  save  what  my  love  could 
grant! 

My  love  I  gave — and  thenceforth  he  be- 
came 
Part  of  my  being — for  the  cliild  of  song 
Loves  not  with  common  fervor — the  rich 
flame 
lUuzes  at  once  intense  and  trebly  strong; 
Destined  to  prove,  in  its  etliereul  lire, 
A  heavenly  beacon  or  a  funeral  pyre ! 

^liiie  wtLs  absorbing  as  the  air  of  light, 
Tlie  flower  of  dew — the  earth  of  sum- 
mer rain — 
I  lived  1)ut  in  his  presence ;  all  my  bright 
And  bvauteuus  dri'uins  were  clustered  in 
his  train ; 
For  liini  I  wi>hed  to  pluck  Corinna's  crown, 
Or  draw  the  glorious  notes  of  angels  down! 


Nay  more — I  promiied  lo 

wreath 
For  which  I  puited— -Vnd 

cot; 
Drive  home  his  bkfttiiig  kine 

heath — 
The  world  for^getdn^  bj  the 

got! 
Blessed  in  his  smile  Ibrego  aU 
And  lose  a  kingdom  to 


mriifci 


But  he  betrayed  his  trust  and  left 
Won  by  a  golden  cbann 
tongue. 
To  woo  a  richer — not  a  fiurer  1ivUb» 
And  I  was  now  alooe!    Tlie 
rung 
With  music  and  with  jqj  W( 
My   lips  were  silent;   bat    it 
heart! 


The  flowers  have  lost  their 

its  charms — 
The  earth  is  barren— drear  tltt 

sky — 
A  bride,  I  give  me  into  death's 
Yet  cannot  corse  my 

die! 
Farewell,  my  harp— I  swell  thj 

more— 
My  dreams  of  Lore  and  Fane 

o'er! 


COMPLAINT  OF  THE  DEAF  AXD 

By  my  lone  casement  in  the  era  Aifliri 
Looking  far  out  upon  the  deep  tlMdi)^ 

**  Fretted  with  goUoi  fire< 
an'  flitting 
Acn)ss  its  face.    Beneadi,  the 
And  plains  and  hills  hi 
tailing 
Of  sheeny  waters 


J 


i 


1860-60.J 


BENJAMIN   T.   GUSHING. 


493 


Books  tell  me  that  thej  murmur,  but  their 
calling 
Comes  not  to  me — ^my  ear  is  closed  in 
night  I 

I  oft  have  wondered  what  strange  power  is 
lying 
In  that  mysterious  thing  which  men  name 
sound — 
What  hues  it  paints  upon  the  soul  with 
dying 
So  rich  and  beautiful,  yet  so  profound  ! 
Is  it  something  which  the  ear  in  viewing 
Is  touched  with  rapture,  as  by  flowers 
the  eye  ? 
In  vain  my  fancy  tires  her  wing  pursuing, 
I  cannot  grasp  the  secret  though  I  die  I 

They  point  to  me  the  bird  which  high  is 
winging 
Its  way  where  boughs  float  on  the  sum- 
mer air — 
They  write  me  that  a  gladsome  lay  'tis 
singing. 
Is  its  gay  song,  then,  like  its  plumage 
rare. 
That  shines  in  gold  and  purple?    They  do 
tell  me 
The  somber  owl  gives  forth  a  dismal 
call: 
Tm  sure  that  song  could  ne'er  with  rapture 
spell  me — 
It  must  be  like  a  coffin's  mournful  pall. 

^  now  remember  childhood's  sky  was  o'er 
me, 

When  first  I  pondered  how  my  brethren 
there 

some  fond  secret  were  far,  far  before 
me; 

And  as  I  pondered,  could  I  but  despair  ? 
when  our  mother,  so  serene  and  beau- 
teous, 

Moved  her  sweet  lips,  they  seemed  to 
catch  the  bliss, 


And  answer  it  with  smile  and  movements 
duteous — 
I    then    thought   sound  was  like  my 
mother's  kiss. 

As  I  grew  older,  by  the  shore  they  took 
me. 
Where  the  big  wave  came  foaming  to- 
ward the  rock, 
But  whilst  I  stood  there,  they  in  dread 
forsook  me, 
Stopping  their  ears  as  if  they  felt  the 
shock, 
Before  it  came,  of  the  huge  billow  dash- 
ing 
Against  the  beach.     Then  I  thought 
there  must  be 
A  feeling  in  their  ears  which  knew  the 
lashing, 
As  did  my  shaken  limbs,  of  the  great 
sea! 

But  when  all  backward  rolled  that  billow 
teeming. 
They  took  up  from  the  shore  whereon 
'twas  cast, 
A  spiral  shell  of  many-colored  gleaming — 
Red,  yellow,  purple — ^like  the  clouded 
east; 
With  joy  we  danced  I     Soon  tired  I  of  the 
treasure, 
But   to  their  ears  they  placed  it,  and 
with  glee. 
Again    they    sprang — thence    deemed    I 
sounds  of  pleasure 
Were  like  that  colored  shell  by  the  deep 
seal 

I  view  the  soldiers  on  their  chief  attend- 
ing. 
And  deem  their  war-note  like  their  daz- 
zling march; 
Groes  it  not  upward  with  the  steed-tramp 
blending. 
And  flaunting,  like  their  banners,  heav- 
en's proud  arch  ? 


491 


BENJAMIN   T.   CCHIIING. 


[IfM 


And  wlien  the  jouth  in  dunces  bri.sk  arc 
moving, 
SikhkIs  not  their  music  like  their  flying 
feet  ? 
And  have  not  lover's  words  a  power  like 
loving  ? 
And  is  not   beauty's   voice  as  beauty 
sweet  ? 

I  had  a  dream  of  moj^t  supernal  splendor, 
Of  n  gn'en  field  where  gupliing  fount- 
ains played, 
And  1>i*oad-braiichcHl  trees  grew  up,  and 
blossoms  tender, 
*Neat1i  everlasting  sunbeams;  and  that 
glade 
Was   full  of  winged  creatures  robed   in 
glory; 
And  as  they  hovered  o'er  me,  the  rich 
tone 
Of  wind,  and  brook,  and  birdlct,  told  its 
story, 
Like  odoni,  to  my  ear !    I  woke,  'twas 
gone. 

I  sec  yon  girl  the  lyre's  sofl  numbers  i^teal- 
ing— 
I  watch  her  moving  lips,  and  view  the 
crowd 
Stand  entranced — then  yearns  my  heart 
with  feeling. 
As  if  by  hunger  s  fiercest  i)angs  'twere 
l)owcd. 
I  loiif; — I  punt  for  that  same  sweet  emo- 
tion, 
AVhicli  others  feel   in  niu>ic*s   glorious 
round ; 
01),   give    me   hearing    as    the    whids   to 
(M'f*an — 
I    faint — I   dii'  in   the    wiM    thirst    for 
sound ! 

Iiiit  I  must  hoar!     This  lite  will  soon  be 

OVtT — 

Then  in   a  land   more  lovely  shall   I 
be. 


Where  no  dark  clouds   thk 
shall  covei^— 
Where  I  shall  hear  ercs  M  €■ 
see; 
Tlien  shall  I  know  the  iioft  voiee  of 
Sofler  than  tho«e  brigjit  ejes  1 
love — 
Then   sliall   I    hail    ««di 
brother ; 
Oh  take  me,  Father,  to  that 


THE  POET. 


*y. 


The  new  moon  treads  the 
The  stars  in  glory  walk  oa 
The  dews  of  night  fidl  Om 
And  sighs  the  wind  arannd  Ihs  tH 
Moaning  in  fitful  gusts  and  wil^ 
Like  a  fond  mother  o*er  her  chU; 
The  lake  is  calm,  in  *'^«*mgft  ^p^^ 
And  Echo's  voice  seems  sosif 
To  the  sad  wind,  or  moumfid 
Which  from  that  ancient  oak  b 
Oh  who,  'mid  this,  on  yondi 
Alone  with  Nature  and  the  aiill? 


Who  stands  upon  that  peak  ss  h^ 
In  iKild  relief  against  the  ikj? 
As  if  to  solemn  thought 
His  folded  amu  lie  on  his 
From  his  broad  brow  the 
Is  flung  hiick  careless  on  the  air; 
IIi>  cheek  is  pale,  but  fidls  Uf 
Keen  as  the  gleam  of  waniorV 
And  on  his  curving  Bp  of 
Subliinest  joy  sits  deified! 
Ti'll  ine,  wliat  doth  he, 
LiMiking  tiu*  up  the  d«ep  hhwair? 

It  is — it  is  the  Poet  youth — 
The  prophet*bard  of  Nature's 
The  high  of  sooU  Upon 
God*s  seal  doth  like  a 


l&5(>-60.] 


BENJAMIN    T.   GUSHING. 


495 


Radiant  and  beautiful !  whose  task 
The  pure  Immortals  well  might  ask ; 
Within  whose  heart's  cell  ever  bum 
High  thoughts,  like  stars  in  Night's  blue  urn ; 
And  whose  clear  voice,  so  deep  and  kind, 
Charms,  blesses,  glorifies  mankind! 

Upon  him  from  his  earliest  daj 
A  golden  charm  from  Nature  lay, 
Which  bade  the  world,  to  others  dim, 
Reveal  a  beauteous  realm  to  him. 
And  seem  as  fair  as  when  she  burst 
From  her  Creator's  hand  at  first ; 
And  let  him  go  where'er  he  will 
That  charm  of  life  is  round  him  still. 

To  him  the  simplest  fiower  that  bloomi 
The  rose-bud,  laden  with  perfumes, 
The  lily,  pale  as  cloistered  nun, 
The  cowslip,  colored  by  the  sun. 
The  meek-eyed  violet's  grassy  bed, 
The  dainty  daisy  tipped  with  red — 
E'en  lichens  from  the  rude  rocks  bowing. 
And  butter-cups  in  meadows  growing, 
And  moss  that  waves  by  waters  clear, 
Give  inspiration  fresh  and  dear. 

He  loveth,  too.  Earth's  living  things : — 
The  humming-bird  on  radiant  wings, 
Like  a  plumed  jewel,  fallen  down 
All  glittering,  from  a  rainbow's  crown; 
The  lark  that  sings,  the  soaring  eagle, 
The  bounding  doe,  the  baying  beagle. 
The  lambkin  sporting  wild  with  play 
On  a  green  bank,  of  summer  day ; 
All  these, — ^and  vales,  and  dashmg  floods 
And  thickets  deep,  and  wild  old  woods 
Where  springs  are  bom,  which  the  bright 

sun 
Strives  through  thick  leaves  to  look  upon. 
And  mountains  brown,  and  heaving  sea, 
Gnind  iu  its  deep-toned  minstrelsy ; 
Thes<*  charm  him,  whether  lit  at  mom 
By  the  sun's  early  torch,  or  warm 
With  the  thick  fire  which  noontide  showers. 
Like  small,  bright  rain  on  thirsty  flowers, 


Or  whether  fair  and  soft  they  lie 
Steeped  in  calm  evening's  rosy  dye! 

But  better  far  than  these  he  loves, 
The  glorious  night,  when  fields  and  groves, 
In  their  thrice  sacred  beauty  spread. 
Solemn  as  mourners  o'er  the  dead ; 
When  all  gay  Nature's  myriad  forms 
(So  fancy-hued  in  Day's  wide  arms) 
Now,  in  one  somber  garb  arrayed, 
Bow  down  and  worship  in  the  shade 
Of  the  great  temple  God  hath  made ! 
Whose  floor  is  earth's  circumference  wide^ 
Whose  organ  is  the  ocean's  tide, 
Whose  pillars  are  the  mountains  high, 
Whose  lamps  the  stars,  whose  roof  the 

sky; 
That  temple  where  both  great  and  small 
Proclaim  God  in,  above,  through  all  I 

Yes,  when  the  Night  spreads  out  her  tent 
With  golden  orbs  of  light  besprent, 
The  Poet  seeks  yon  lofty  mound. 
And  scans  the  dreamy  landscape  round — 
The  darkened  woods,  the  distant  river. 
And  the  stars  shining  on  forever — 
Nature's  dear  child,  most  glad  with  her. 
To  be  a  silent  worshiper ! 
And  as  he  gazes,  o'er  his  soul 
Those  tides  of  song  in  music  roll. 
Which  yet  shall  break  on   time's  dark 

shore. 
And  ring  melodious,  evermore ! 

Oh,  solemn  Night !  thine  is  the  hour 
When  Poesy  hath  deepest  power. 
When  inspiration,  like  a  flood 
Of  mellow  glory,  bids  the  blood 
Dance  swifter  through  the  veins,  and  flres 
The  heart  with  fond  and  proud  desires ; 
Thine  is  the  hour  when  most  we  love 
To  radiate  toward  the  Soul  above- 
When  tender  thoughts  abroad  are  stealing, 
And  tender  wishes  past  revealing ; 
Thine  is  the  hour  for  dreams  most  bright — 
Then  let  the  Poet  bve  the  Night ! 


49G 


BENJAMIN   T.   CTSHIXG. 


[liM 


I  DO  NOT  LOVE  THEE. 

I  i>o  not  love  tlufc — hy  my  wonl  I  do  not ! 
I  (io  not  love  thee — ibr  thy  love  I  xue  not. 
And  yet  I   fear  there*s  hardly  one  that 

weareth 
Thy  hcauty*A  chains  who  like  me  for  thee 

eareih; 
Who  joy  14  like  me  when  in  tliy  joy  believ- 

Who  like  me  ^ieves  when  thou  doftt  8eem 

but  grieving;. 
But  tliough  1  clianas  so  iHsriloufl  eschew 

not, 
I  do  not  love  thee — ^nu  indeed  1  do  not ! 

,    I  do  not  love  tht»c — prithee,  why  so  coy, 
I  then, 

Doth    it    thy  maiden    bitshfulness  annoy, 
then  ? 
I     Sith  the  heart's  homage  still  will  be  up- 
j  welling, 

Where  Truth  and  Goodness  have  so  sweet 
I  a  dwelling, 

Surely,  unjust  one,  I  were  ler>s  than  mortaL 

Knelt  1  not  thus  betbre  that  temple's  por- 
;  tal. 

Others  dare  love  thee— dare  what  I  do 

not, 

I 

Then  let  me  worshi|),  bright  one,  while  I 
woo  not 


THE  I»AST. 

WiiKN  twilight  shades  are  iitealing 

Aeross  tin*  skv. 
An* I  zrpliyrs,  ;:riitly  wailing, 

An'  waiMlrriii;:  bv, 
Thrn  nit  I  sadly  dreaming, 

Willi  brow  o'fn*a>t. 
While  to  my  Hiiil  ronies  iH'aming 

The  1k»1v  Pjl<L 


The  Past !  how  fair  it 

Before  the  sighl — 
Clad  with  unrhanging 

Arrayed  in  light ! 
Moved  by  its  visionn  gloving 

The  free  heart  bound*^ 
Soil  as  a  HtreamV  sweei 

Its  music  souods ! 

Ah !  then  how  manj  knew 

Who  know  no  naoro 
How  many  who  now  view 

From  heaven *«  dim 
The  fond,  the  dear,  tbe 

R<*moved  from  day. 
Their  forms  of  beantj 

In  oold  decay. 


Our  love  couM  not 

With  bondage 
Our  ho|)es  could  not 

As  rainbows  fleet ; 
They  gave  for  eartb,  in 

One  yearning  rigb^ 
One  wish  for  those  left 

Then  sought  tbe  sky. 


The  Pa<t !  what  joyw 

How  fresh  and  fair 
Were  the  flower- 
It — 

Tliose  moments 
Their  odor  yet  embalms  il 

In  beauty  kme. 
And  when  the  present 

I  sadly  moan. 


The  Past !  its 

Its  glories  o*er ; 
Eiu*h  blissful  dream  haA 

To  come  no  more ; 
Yet  like  the  moumfnl 

That  deck  a  tomb^ 
Tlieir  memories  in 

Will  ever  bloom  I 


CELIA  M.  BURR. 


i  M.  Burr  was  bom  in  the  town  of  Cazenovia,  New  York,  about  the  year 
She  was  the  adopted  cliild  of  Henry  and  Sarah  Tibbitts,  of  whom  she  speaks 
ring  kindness  as  persons  of  unblemished  integrity  of  character.  Her  educa- 
3  mainly  acquired  at  the  district  school-house,  a  mile  distant  from  her  home, 
jeral  opportunities  were  offered  her  for  a  short  period,  at  a  popular  Seminary, 
le  became  a  school-teacher,  and  was  successfully  employed  in  that  capacity 
r  marriage,  in  January,  1844,  to  C.  B.  Kellum,  then  a  citizen  of  Albany,  New 
Soon  after  marriage  Mr.  Kellum  removed  from  Albany  to  Cincinnati.  There 
jllum  began  her  literary  career.  Adopting  the  signature  Celia,  she  wrote 
id  verse  which  were  acceptable  to  leading  papers.  In  1849  she  became  the 
editor  of  the  Great  West,  a  weekly  journal  of  large  size  and  of  popular  char- 
hich  E.  Penrose  Jones  had  established  in  1848.     Mr.  Jones  was  the  leading 

of  the  firm  of  Robinson  &  Jones,  booksellers   and  publishers,  who  were 

br  literary  journals  printed  in  Boston  and  New  York,  with  editions  for  the 

market  dated  at  Cincinnati,  Louisville,  or  St.  Louis.     The  success  of  Robin- 

jnes  as  agents  induced  them  to  become  legitimate  proprietors. 

iously  conducted  and  liberally  advertised,  the  Great  West  attained  a  large  cir- 

in  all  the  Western  States.  All  the  prominent  writers  of  the  Ohio  Valley 
id  contributors,  and  Mr.  Jones  was  able  to  show  that  the  West  could  have  as 
iterary  journal  of  its  own,  as  thase  New  York  and  Philadelphia  publishers 
o  provide  for  it.  In  March,  1850,  the  Great  West  was  united  with  the  Weekly 
aiij  a  paper  of  like  character,  which  had  been  in  existence  a  few  months. 
•duct  of  this  union,  The  Columbian  and  Great  Westy  published  by  E.  Penrose 
id  edited  by  William  B.  Shattuck,  was  eminently  successful  until  September, 
hen  it  wa>  suspended  on  account  of  emHm'rassments  growing  out  of  a  Daily 
'an.  Sprightly  letters  written  for  the  Great  West  by  Mrs.  Kellum  as  "Mrs. 
nith,"  were  much  admired  and  widely  circulated  by  other  literary  papers. 
lie  Great  West  and  Weekly  Columbian  were  united,  Mrs.  Kellum  was  engaged 
ular  contributor;  and  she  afterward  wrote  for  the  New  York  7Wfttm«,  for  Gro" 
fagazuie,  and  other  literary  periodicals  published  in  eastern  cities, 
ig  obtained  a  divorce  from  her  husband,  Mrs.  Kellum  married,  in  1851,  C. 
^y  Burr,  who  is  well  known  as  a  lecturer  and  writer.  This  marriage  proving 
nial,  Mrs.  Burr  separated  from  her  husband  and  returned  to  tlie  profession  for 
le  had  lilted  herself  in  early  life.  She  is  now  a  teacher  in  the  University  of 
denborgian  Church,  at  Urbana,  Ohio. 


(497) 

32 


4'JH 


C'KLIA    M.    lil'KIl. 


[IM 


THK  KKAI»KKS. 

AuorsK  thee*,  fuint-hcurtcd !  what  fcart'st 

Tluit  thou  g()<*.st  not  forth  witli  the  day, 
Ihit  Mttiiig  all  listk*s>ly,  hearot 

riihrediiif;  lh(»  harv«'.-»ti*r>'  hiy? 
Tilt*  sun  is  far  up  o*4*r  the  hill-to|). 

The  rcap<*rs  nrv  out  on  the  plain, 
And   tht;   strung   and    brave-hearted   are 
iilling 

Their  gamers*  with  ripe,  yellow  grain. 

The  dew  has  gone  up  fn)ni  the  clover, 

The  nioniing  is  waning  a]>ace, 
The  days  of  the  suniintrr  are  over. 

And  winter  will  autumn  displace : 
Tlien  why  art  not  out  in  the  vaHeys, 

And  working  with  hearty  grxNl  will, 
To  gather  thy  share  of  the  harvest, 

Thy  gamer  with  plenty  to  HI  I  ? 

**  I  sit  in  my  plan'  all  the  nioming. 

Because  when  I  went  to  the  plain, 
In  the  first  early  gray  of  the  dawning, 

And  look(;d  on  the  far-waving  grain, 
I  saw,  in  \t»  midst,  sturdy  n'ap<*rs, 

With  anns  tluit  wen*  steady  and  true, 
AVliose  sicklod  went  flashing  )>eforc  them. 

Like  sunbeams  enameh^d  with  dew. 

'*  And  strong  as  the  warriors  of  olden, 

Th«'V  sto(Ml  in  the  midst  of  their  sheaves, 
AVhile  hefon*  them  the  harvest  all  golden 

Swept  down  like  the  wuid->liaken  leaves. 
And  I  knew  'twas  a  usele.-s  t-ndeavor 

For  me  to  gi>  forth  to  the  plain — 
Tlic  weak  have  no  plaee  at  tlie  harvest. 

No  ?li;ire  in  tlu'  trea^un-s  of  gniin. 

**Th«v   would    lan;:h    nie   to  sa»m — thev 
wniild  j»er  nie, 
Tliu-<- iiii'M,  in  tin*  nii;:ht  nf  tin  irj)ride; — 
I  kiH»\v  :ill  my  wiaknf-- — ami  f<.'ar  nie 

Ti*  -r»k  inv  a  plai-"'  at  ili(-ir>ide. 
Aii'l  -n  I  luiM*  >tav«'d  in  iiiv  d\\t'Hin«;, 
Whili-  tilt'   <lrw  has  g<tue  up  from  the 
plain  ; 


;  For  I  Imve  no  placr  ml  ibe 
No  »\um  in  die  tnsa»artt«  of 


,  Woe  )>otide  thee  I  thou  weak  mi  i 
hearted. 

That  giN'st  not  forth  to  the  idd! 

For,  In* hold  when  the  dmj  u  dg|MHgd 

j     What  fruit  will  thy  feaHobesM  viri 

'And  w!.at  if  thy  arm  be  not  fUu^gu 

Wilt  then*fore  nit  idlj  and  piai^ 
Negh'eting  to  ui«e  what  is  gives. 

And  wasting  e'en  that  which  ii  thii 


Go  forth  to  thy  work,  idle 

There  in  room  in  the  harrert  fcr  al 
And  if  thine  be  the  work  of  the  gka 

Gather  carefully  that  which  aay  k 
So  shall  thou  have  place  at  the 

A  share  of  it^  treasures  be 
And  e*en  if  thy  share  be  the 

Still  let  not  thj  spirit 

For  the  labor  of  each  one 

The  weakest  as  well 
And  the  chorus  of  no 

In  the  Hweii  of  the 


as  the 


LABOR. 


''  Tkll  me,miuden,"  said  the 
"*  What  the  message  I  ihaD 
thee. 
To  the  angeb  who  with  lova 
Fed  the  life-lainp  of  ihj  i 
When  I  met't  them  thej  will 
*(>h,  year!   what 
below?'" 


I 


,**TrIl  ihrm.  tell  them  that  hoideikf' 

1  \\  ait  a  iKL-sage  to  the  hmd  of  b^ 

That  II<i)ie  lius  whLipered.o'crlht  ■* 

to  me, 
I     A  g«>odly  veflflcl  bj  the  wiaiiiik* 


150-60.] 


CELIA   M.    BURR. 


499 


0  wafl  me  proudly  to  that  sunny  land 
^here   all   the  castles  of  my  dreaming 
stand. 

Day  afier  day  I  watch  the  ships  go  hy ; 
And  strain  my  eyes  across  the  purpling 

deep, 
liere  dimly  pictured  'gainst  the  summer 

sky 
The  hills  of  morning  in  their  beauty 

sleep. 
lit  look  I  even  now  across  the  shining 

sea, 
lie  ship  of  promise  bearing  down  for  me." 

n. 

Silent  mourner,   on   the    wreck-strewn 

shore. 
When  the  angels  of  thy  infancy 
sk   if  homeward   turn   thy   steps   once 

more, 
What,  I  pray  thee,  shall  my   answer 

be? 
Tell   us!    tell   us,'   they   will   say,   *0h 

year! 
raws  the  loved  one  unto  us  more  near?'" 

Leave  me !  leave  me  I  all  is  lost,  is  lost  I 
My   goodly  ship    is   crumbled  in   the 

deep, 
[y   trusted    helmsman  in   the    breakers 

tossed ; 
All's  wrecked !  all's  wasted,  even  the 

power  to  weep, 
he  mocking  waves  toss  scornfully  ashore 
he    ruined  treasures  that  are  mine  no 

more. 

Leave  me  alone  to  pore  upon  the  waves, 
Whitened  with   upturned   faces  of  the 

dead ; 
larth  for  such  corpses  has,  alas !  no  graves ; 

No  holy  priest  has  requiescat!  said. 
'here's    nothing   left   me    but   the   bitter 

sea, 
jod  and  his  angels  have  forgotten  me." 


IIL 

^  Earnest  worker,  in  the  fire-light  dreaming, 

What  the  message  I  shall  bear  from 

thee 

To  the  angels  whose  soft  eyes  are  beaming 

From  the  portal  where  they  watch  for 

me? 

*  Is  she  coming  ? '  they  will  say,  *  Oh  year ! 
Draw    her    footsteps    to  the    home-land 

near?'" 

"  This  the  message — ^that  I  sit  no  more 
With  eyes  bent  idly  on  the  hills  of 
mom, 
That  in  the  tempest  on  the  wreck-strewn 
shore, 
A  holier  purpose  to  my  soul  was  bom. 

*  Give  leave  to  labor' — was  the  prayer  I 

said, 
Leaving  the  dead  past  to  inter  its  dead. 

"And  it  was  granted — ^by  my  hearth  to- 
night- 
Tell  the  beloved  ones, — I  sit  alone 
But  not  unhappy ;  for  the  morning  light 
Will  show  my  pathway  with  its  uses 
strown. 
Happy  in  labor — say  to  them,  Oh,  year  I 
I  wait  the  Sabbath  which  I  trust  draws 


near. 


n 


THE  SNOW. 

Peacefully,  dreamily,  slowly, 

It  comes  through  the  halls  of  the  air, 
And  falls  to  the  earth  like  a  spirit 

That  kneels  in  its  beauty  at  prayer. 
'ISiid  the  sere  leaves  she  layeth  her  fore- 
head. 

While  the  forests  are  murmuring  low. 
And  telling  the  beads   she   has   brought 
them — 

The  beautiful  spirit,  the  Snow. 


OBED  J.  WILSON. 


The  8c]iool-teacher8  of  the  West  have  contributed  a  proporlkmate  ahareof  ovp 
ical  literature,  which  will  survive  partial  friends  and  !j:|>ecial  intereMJ*  Mr.  Wil 
holds  respectable  nink  among  them.  Ten  yvvL^f^  ago  he  was  a  frequent  writer  to 
daily  and  weekly  papers  of  Cincinnati.  In  a  notc»  from  which  in  jiMtwe  lo  hiB 
quote,  Mr.  Wilson  says : 


My  piH^iiiH  were  writU'O  when  the  pastime  of  vcfHifying  inrolrfd  do 
BvriuuH  duties  of  life.    At  a  time  of  life  when  my  cqji>ymt'Dt(«  \v(i  mo  NMne  k'isvrr.  1 
pletthurv  iu  making  rhyurt*.    Fur  the  past  eight  or  ten  years  I  have  written  bat  littliL 

Mr.  Wilson  is  a  c'itizen  of  Ciucinnati,  and  is  the  literary  referee  of  the  book  p 
lishiug  iirm  of  Wiiithrop  B.  Smith  &  Company.     lie  is  about  thinj-five  jeMof  i 


THK  STAItS, 

Hkralds  uf  }K)wer,  in  Ix^auty  sent, 

All  flaming  from  the  hiuid  of  God, 
To  sweep  along  the  tirmmuent, 

And  Ixtar  his  glorious  s(»iil  abroad, 
Ye  roll  as  grandly,  proudly  bright, 

As  erst  ye  rollt*d  in  youthful  prime. 
And  fling  your  niys  of  rosy  light 

Along  the  starry  >teeps  of  time. 

I  stand  entranced,  and  guzt*  afar 


Through  nature,  in  its 
liehold  the  high  omniflc 

That   braids   the   lightniogii 
storms, 
And  wraps  old  ocean  round  the 


Whose  was  the  hand  that  fiuhionel  if 
And  walled  it  with  the  riolrt  ikj; 

That  bade  the  star*  go  forth 
Their  |Mitliway8  through  i 

Who  n»lle<l  the  waves  of 
And  looked  your  streantf  of 


1 

« 

fad 


Aen)ss  the  blue  long  n?aeh  of  heaven.     To  fltiw  along  tlie  goMen 


And  watch  each  ri<'hlv-blazinjj  star 

Come  pn»ssing  through  tint  shades  of 
even  ; 

Till  tar  around  the  ih»jm»  of  night. 
All  <lownwunl  to  it>  dusky  hem, 

U  beaming,  beautifully  britrht. 
With  manv  a  nidiant  stellar  <;i-m. 

\'v  central  suns  that  power  divine 


That  each  pursues  throogh 


The  stars  in  concert  oweetlj  j 

The  glfirious  answer  to 
Proclaiming.  *twas  a  hand  divi 

That  fnimed  the  mighty 
.  That  decked  it  with  all  goigeaao  djifik 
'     And  gemmed  it  with  cffulgiat 
\nd  rolN-d  it  with  the  oapphm 


ScMt    wheeling   thnmgh    the   deeps  of;      The  gnuid  chronometer  of 
space, 
I  tMiiiif  t<^  worship  at  your  shrine.  Roll  un,  ye  stars,  subltmdj  roD 


And  in  his  works  their  author  trace; 


(  AOO  ) 


In  Ix^auty  and  in 


] 


OBED    J.  WILSON. 


601 


iring  to  your  distant  goal 
freshness  of  your  primal  dawn ; 
ining  out  as  purely  bright 
I  the  ages  past  ye  shone ; 
Chaldee's   shepherds   watched  by 

march  along  yon  blazing  zone. 


rims  round  the  eternal  throne, 
censers  filled  with  living  light, 
ights  go  wandering  forth  alone 
ack  with  you  the  wastes  of  night ; 
Lhe  clouds  and  tempests'  rage, 
is  yon  blue  and  radiant  arch, 
our  long,  high  pilgrimage, 
xrhed  your  glittering  armies  march. 

he  blue,  ethereal  plain, 

living  splendors  meet  and  blend, 
^  a  constellated  chain, 
out  beginning,  break,  or  end ; 

this  telegraph  of  light, 

ds  beyond  worlds,  far  out  in  space, 

)wn  across  the  Infinite, 

*  tidings  from  God*s  dwelling-place. 

lyriad  rills  of  pearly  beams 
;  rippling  down  the  slopes  of  even, 
rces  of  whose  living  streams 
n  those  far-off  founts  of  heaven : 
ose  the  hand  that  e'er  supplies, 
ifler  age  their  dminless  springs, 
Is  them  gush  along  the  skies, 
1  night  abroad  her  mantle  flings  ? 

Qswer,  ocean,  with  thy  full, 

deep,  and  solemn  undertone ; 

nswer,  earth,  all  beautiful 

life,  and  love,  and  blossoms  strewn ; 

Dswer,  heart  and  soul  within, 

;  answer,  thoughts  that  rove  abroad; 

,  bright  minstrelsy,  begin, 

in  your  chorus  answer,  God  ! 


LINES. 


I  FEAR  not  scandal,  though  its  tongue 

My  reputation  blast. 
And  o'er  a  name  I've  stainless  kept 

Its  withering  venom  cast; 
For  virtues  that  might  pass  unknown 

In  fortune's  sunny  day, 
When  slandered  by  the  lips  of  guile, 

Shed  forth  their  gentlest  ray. 

I  fear  not  hatred,  though  it  arm 

Itself  in  secret  guile ; 
For  kindness  changeth  it  to  love. 

And  charms  it  with  her  smile : 
Till  where  dark  passions  lurked  before, 

Plotting  their  deeds  of  wrong, 
Meek  virtue  makes  her  dwelling-place, 

And  loving  grows,  and  strong. 

I  fear  not  poverty  and  want, — 

Misfortune's  haggard  train, — 
Contentment  mailed  in  cheerfulness 

Disarmeth  them  of  pain : 
She  strews  the  sloping  walks  of  life 

With  roses  rich  and  rare, 
And  they  who  tread  her  pleasant  paths 

Will  find  no  serpents  there. 

I  fear  not  sorrow,  robed  in  weeds,^ 

Afiiiction's  tearful  child, — 
It  wins  me  from  a  world  of  sin 

That  else  had  love  beguiled ; 
And  points  me  to  a  Better  Land 

Far  o'er  Time's  stormy  main, 

Where  long-lost  friends,  death  sandered 
here. 

Shall  meet  and  love  again* 

I  fear  not  sickness  and  disease. 

Though  pains  companion  them ; 
They  can  but  mar  the  casket, 

They  may  not  soil  its  gem : 
They  teach  me  that  the  ills  of  life 

Are  blessings  in  disguise, — 
The  mingled  good  and  ill  we  heir 

From  distant  Paradise. 


502 


OHEI)    J.    WILSON. 


[Itf 


I  fear  not  all  thy  terrors,  Death, 

I  dread  not  even  thee; 
Thou  const  but  take  its  citadel 

And  S(*t  the  spirit  tree ; 
Free  to  comineneu  its  eniUess  round 

Of  usefuhiess  and  hh>s, 
Where  sin  and  sormw  nt^ver  come. 

In  fairer  worlds  timn  tliij». 

But  I  do  fear  the  slavi^ry 

Of  |)assiions  deep  and  dark, 
That  drive  ua  on  o'er  pulls  of  vice, 

Ad  winds  the  ludinless  bark : 
Till  on  some  lone  and  stormy  sea 

The  worthless  wreck  goes  down. 
With  tempests  ra<ring  round  it, 

And  beneath  a  clouded  sun. 


Trumping,  with  hw  tread  of  ihaaiv. 
Over  upland,  plain,  and 


Winding  round  the  bsM  of 

Penetrating  ancient  woodi, 
Vaulting  valleya,  wild  and  glooBj, 

Threading  prairie  ioUtudet: 
Hacing  thus  lor  miles  unnamben^ 

We  outstripped  the  laf^giog  ydt; 
On,  and  on,  and  on,  for  houn, 

liattling  oVr  the  ringing  raiL 

Thundering  down  acmw  the 

Came  another  tmin  aa  flrd. 
Dashing  on  to  make  oonnection. 

Where  converging  eou 
Soon  we  reached  the  intertectka. 

Whi:itle8  sounded,  stopped 
Friends  exchanged  briel 

""All  aboard  !** — awaj 


LIFE  -A  JOURNEY. 

^All  aboard!"  Conductor  Bhouted; 

To  the  engineer  he  spake ; 
Then  were  looaed  the  fettered  fliuiges 

From  the  shackles  of  the  break : 
Loud  and  shrill  the  whistle  sounded ; 

Slowly  out  the  l<»ng  train  moves ; 
Stoutly  play  the  shining  pistons, 

Up  and  down  the  oily  grooves. 

FiLster,  faster,  breathes  the  charger, 

Which  nor  time  nor  load  can  tire. 
With  his  iron  limbs  and  muscles, 

And  his  breath  of  steam  and  fire ; 
Him  with  brazen  bands  they've  harnessed, 

And  have  fettereii  to  the  car. 
And  bravely  and  right  <r.dlantly 

lie  bears  us  now  afar. 

How  )iis  mane  of  sable  blackness. 
With  the  fin'-sparks  in t<*rt wined. 

As  In-  ru-^hes  grandly  tmwanl. 
Hack  is  tliniwn  alnn;^  the  wind! 

Fa-trr,  fast  IT,  ati<l  yet  fiiste  r. 
Plunges  on  our  iron  >te(*<l, 


Again  away  onr  tnuna  went 
Freighted  with  their  wcshh  of 

Onward  to  their  destinatioB, 
Hearing  love,  and  hope,  and 

Hearts  with  grief  and 


Bosoms  filli*d  with  dumb 

Loud-voiced  mirth  and  brigfat-cjrf  1 

ter. 

Sober  thought  and  an: 


:  Such  is  life,  a  rapid  joomcj, 
!  Thus  to  death  we  hiiny  o^ 
■Thus  we  meet  and  thus  are 
I     Come  in  luiste,  in  haste  are 

Thus  our  pathft  are  int 

I     Thus  we  |Nirt  to  meet  no 

S]N'eding  down  diverging 
To  death's  dim  and 


None  can  loiter,  none 

Infancy,  and  youth,  and 
Kver  restless,  all  are 

On  this  unknown 
O,  may  Virtue,  sweet  and  holf» 

O,  may  Faith,  the  gentle  om^ 
Fit  us  for  the  Better  Oonntiy, 

When  our  }     nejiqgi  haraaitdi 


EDWARD  D.  HOWARD. 


Among  the  joung  men  who  attracted  attention  as  contributors  to  the  National  Era^ 
8000  after  its  establi^^timent  at  Washington  Citj,  was  Edward  D.  Howard,  then  a  res- 
ident of  Orwell,  Aslitabula  county,  Ohio,  now  a  citizen  of  Cleveland.  Mr.  Howard 
is  a  native  of  Tolland,  Connecticut,  where  he  was  bom,  September  twenty-seventh, 
1825.  His  parents  settled  in  Ohio  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  he  was  educated  in  the 
common  schools  of  Ashtabula  county  and  at  Kirtland  Academy.  He  was  for  several 
years  a  school-teacher  in  Northern  Ohio,  and  has  been  editor  of  the  Western  Reserve 
Chronicle,  at  Warren,  of  the  Free  Democrat,  at  Youngstown,  and  of  the  Cleveland 
Leader,  He  has  been  a  poetical  contributor  to  several  magazines  of  established  rep- 
utation, as  well  as  to  the  New  York  Tribune, 


MIDSUMMER. 

I  LIE  beneath  the  quiet  trees 

That  murmur  softly,  like  a  song, 
Breathed  gently  through  unconscious  lips  ; 

Happy  as  summer  days  are  long 
I  lie  and  gaze,  while  pulse  and  thought 

Flow  on  with  deep  and  lingering  tide, 
Tlie  one  into  my  dreaming  heart, 

The  other  outward,  vague  and  wide. 

The  drowsy  hours  full-freighted  drift 

Along  life's  ocean,  as  of  old, 
Deep-laden  argosies  went  down 

To  eastern  cities,  fraught  with  gold ; 
And  tropic  fruits,  and  spicy  drugs, 

Whose  very  names  a  fragrance  bear, 
As  vases  which  have  held  rich  flowers, 

Betray  the  sweetness  once  was  there. 

Not  of  the  Future  dream  I  now ; 

The  Spring  will  witli  those  dreams  return ; 
And  hope  and  energy  will  wake. 

When  Winter's  fires  again  shall  bum : 
Nor  of  the  Past — let  mein'ry  sleep. 

Till  Autumn's  pensive  touch,  once  more. 


Shall  tune  my  heart  to  sad  delight, 
And  paint  lost  visions  fondly  o'er. 

Hope — ^memory — regret — despair — 

Gone  are  your  hours  of  light  and  gloom ; 
Midsummer  days  are  not  for  you. 

For  the  rich  Present  now  make  room ! 
The  womanhood  of  nature  breathes 

Its  warm  fruition  every  where ; 
And  the  deep  triumph  of  her  heart 

Fills,  like  a  passion,  all  the  air. 

I  breathe  its  inspiration  in ; 

She  bears  it  brimming  to  my  lips ; 
Not  half  so  full  of  rosy  joy 

The  wine  the  flushed  bacchante  sips. 
So  Hebe  bore  the  fabled  cup. 

To  bless  the  heathen  gods  of  yore ; 
So  deep  they  drank  the  fragrant  bliss 

From  the  full  chalice  running  o*er. 

Oh,  wear}^  heart,  with  passion  sick, 

Has  thy  deep  love  unanswered,  lost. 
Brought  no  repayal  to  the  breast 


Which  gave  it  at  such  fearful  cost  ? 


(503) 


504 


KDWAKD    D.    HOWARD. 


[I«»^ 


Iloa  life  grown  weiiry  in  its  noon, 

Uncrowned,  injj;loriou!9,  incomplete  ? — 

IIa.s  the  flower  faltered  in  its  bloom 
Witholding  its  precious  bweet  ? — 

Around  it?  fnigrant  center  still 

Folding,  in  darkness  un<l  diM'iiy, 
Tlia^e  inmost  [Metals,  which  in  love 

Blopsom  life's  fragnmt  joy  away  ? 
Oh,  come  with  me  beneath  the  trees ; — 

Forget  thy^elf  in  nature's  joy! 
Here  dwells  no  baflied,  longing  pain — 

No  disappointment  to  aimoy ! 

Here  triumph  in  her  full  sucrcess ; 

Here  revel  in  her  l>oundless  bloom ; 
Blen<i  her  sweet  consciousness  with  thine, 

And  take  her  sunlight  for  thy  gloom. 
Thus  shall  thy  inma<t  s[>irit  firel 

The  thrill  of  det^p,  victorious  song, 
And  life  be  crowned  with  happiness 

When  fair  midsummer  days  are  long. 


FRATERNITY. 

Come  together,  men  and  brothers, 

Come  together  for  the  right ; 
C^»me  together  in  the  dawning,— 

Come  togt'ther  in  the  light ; 
As  the  niys  of  sunny  gladness 

Mingle  o'er  the  m<iuritains  gray, 
Mingle  we  in  bonds  fnUcmal, 

lUcnding  joyfully  as  they ! 

Come  together— do  not  linger 

By  the  fill's  of  hatred  old ; 
Ix)ve  is  l>etter  and  nion*  worthy, 

Btauiit'ul  an  hundn-d  fold. 
Grop<-  no  more  amid  the  a>lif 

Bury  deep  ihe  embers  there ; 
For  a  purer  light  now  fla>hes 

Through  the  vivilving  air. 


Come  together — be 

Cominou  friendi  for  cowimoii  good: 
Wluit  is  liest  for  you,  nj  bracher, 

Can  on  no  onc*s  righto  inlnide. 
'^  What  is  sorrowful  and  eril 

For  the  humbleAt  of  mMikiii^ 
This  is  sorrow  to  all  othen  !* 

Saith  the  puru,  enlightened  mSmL 

Come  tog(*ther! — Earth  and  Hoara 

Wait  expectant  of  the  time; 
Fnwdom  brightly  oVt  ua 

With  a  smile  of  hope  suUoMi 
Angels  linger  at  the  portals 

Of  the  bright  and  happj  waril 
Gazing  down  with  jojfiil  glaaeei 

Where  free  banners  are  imlfaried! 


I  DREAM  OP  THE& 


I  DRKAM  of  thee,  and  sleep 

The  spring-time  of  untold  defighft; 

While  Heaven,  which  lingers  &r  aviy 
By  day,  eomes  near  me  in  the 


I  dream  of  thee,  and  life 
A  bles>ing  fraught  with 

Till  angels  in  their  starrj 
Might  envy  me  the  jojs  of 


The  daylight  fades, — soft  ahadovi 
Caix'  spares  me  till  lo-monow  Bflni; 

While  sh't'p  oVrtints  with  love  and  i^ 
Night*s  visions,  brighter  than  the  dffi 

I  love  the  night  for  starry  honrii 
For  quiet  thought,  and  peaeefid  nrti 

But  when  it  brings  a  dream  of  thee^ 
Oh,  then  the  night  indeed  it  bkaW 

*Tis  sjiid  this  life  is  but  a  dreamp 
I  would  that  such  mj  life  m^^  W>* 

A  lingering  dream  of  wmntlfs  jam^ 
If  *twei'e  a  dnsam  of  love  and  titfo! 


D.  CARLYLE   MACCLOY. 


In  the  month  of  October,  of  the  jear  1853,  Howard  Durham,  who  had  been  pub- 
lishing a  semi-monthly  literary  and  musical  paper  which  he  called  The  Gem^  issued 
the  first  number  of  a  monthly  magazine  of  original  western  literature,  for  which  the 
title  of  The  Genius  of  the  West  was  adopted.  It  contained  thirty-two  octavo  pages, 
i^hich  were  filled  with  contributions  from  the  pens  of  Coates  Kinney,  Alice  Gary,  M. 
Louisa  Chitwood,  and  others  among  the  younger  writers  of  the  West  It  was  received 
with  encouragement,  and  the  young  publisher  drew  around  him  a  corps  of  writers,  till 
then  enjoying  merely  local  reputations,  whose  poems,  sketches  and  tales,  republished 
from  The  Genius  in  leading  papers  of  western  cities,  were  read  with  pleasure  in  all  parts 
of  the  Mississippi  Valley.  Among  the  most  successful  of  those  writers  was  the  sub- 
ject of  this  notice.  Both  the  poems  hereafter  quoted,  were  contributed  to  The  Genitu, 
«  The  Moquis"  in  January,  1854,  and  "  The  Fragment "  in  February,  1855.  Through 
all  the  changes  of  publishers  and  editors  affecting  the  fortunes  of  77ie  Genius,  Mr. 
Maccloy  was  its  steadfast  friend.  In  June,  1854,  Mr.  Durham  associated  Charles  S. 
Abbott  and  Coates  Kinney  with  its  management,  and  in  the  succeeding  month  with- 
drew from  it  and  started  a  magazine  of  similar  character,  called  the  New  Western,  of 
which  only  three  numbers  were  issued.  In  August,  1854,  William  T.  Coggeshall  be- 
came a  joint  partner  with  Abbott  and  Kinney,  and  in  September  the  sole  proprietor, 
Mr.  Kinney  remaining  as  co-editor  until  July,  1855.  In  December,  1855,  Mr. 
Coggeshall  sold  the  magazine  to  George  True,  then  of  Mt.  Vernon,  Ohio,  who  was  its 
publisher  until  July,  1856,  when  he  discontinued  it  It  had,  in  all  its  history,  the  con- 
fidence and  support  of  the  literary  men  of  tlie  West,  and  generous  encouragement 
from  conductors  of  city  and  county  papers,  but  it  never  more  than  paid  the  expenses 
of  printing — typifying  hope  and  faith  on  the  part  of  publishers,  editors  and  authors,  as 
in  times  past  for  many  magazines  in  Ohio,  rather  than  healthful  exercise  on  the  part 
of  the  public  of  just  local  pride  in  home  literature. 

Mr.  IVIaccloy  wrote  poems,  critiques  and  sketches  for  The  Genius  quite  equal 
o  contributions  of  similar  character,  common  to  magazines  imported  from  sea-board 
ities,  which  are  popular  "out  West"  He  was  bom,  we  believe,  in  the  Mus- 
kingum Valley  (near  Zanesville),  about  the  year  1825.  He  received  a  liberal  educa- 
ion,  having,  we  think,  graduated  at  Gambler  College, — and  then  devoted  himself  to 
c*aoliing  scliool.     He  was,  in  1856,  Principal  of  the  High  School  at  Chillicothe,  Ohio. 

In  1855  Mr.  Maccloy  read  a  sprightly  satirical  poem  before  several  Lyceums  in 
)hio,  and  appeared  then  ambitious  for  literary  distinction,  but,  since  1856,  has  rarely 
:iven  his  name  to  the  world. 


(505) 


i;AICLYi,E   MACCLUV. 


A  FRAOMEST. 
a  my  ytaim,  now,  is 


Sec  liuw  tlio  pluni]),  rounil  gmii).'<,  fillL-il  tu 

llif  .-kin 
Willi  IiuiK-sl  nii*ai,  fntm  llit-ir  own  wci^lii 

p.  .U.w« 
Till  1I117  lire  lost  iHMii-iith  tliv  wunlik-: 

liii>ks 
Wliicli  n-uin  their  v<>r}-  li;;lilm>sii  riw  nnil 

hiJu 
Wliiii  U'ttiT  ilulli  ili>MTvi>  ihf  ki«i  of  diif . 
W.ll.  M-r.  I  Wow  (iiH>n  ii.  so— mark  now, 
Dow  (loili  ili<-  iill*^  i-liiiir  fiy  oil'  until 
Till-  ims^-ins  wintU  Ix-ur  it  iiwuv  mt:^n, 
WliiTc  i:  flmll  nil,  Willi  no  morf  vttun  ibi 


jriiz 


Tlic/  iiiitke  no  noise,  bui  quicilr  suri 
Fur  ^rrntiiti>4   u   poM*eiMuJ    Mod   Lm 


>t  rutii(>  Bs  a  great  end  ii 


rii.-; 

Itut  Iruin  ilitir 

Hm-n<i'; 
And  lU-utU  III  iitfeOtinie  of 

Iai'.  him  who  Mleeps  bj 
tide! 
lliinM-lf  i)i(>  ;rnind  epitomi;  of  ■ 
Tu  wJMKn  nil  lni«»iori9  and  1 
riiiniL-k,  whik-  lie  r^xfiomi  tbmmm^m 
And   Iruokdl  t'scU  shj    1 


Itut  thitie  [lurc  gfra 

WIUH-, 

The  thiittul  ciirlh  rei-eivi-s,  uiid  fruin  tlioir 


Down  tutlif  I 
t  with  lire  lo  01'  -Xutiire'*  jouraeym 


•  ■  r 


The  joe 

tiiiiih^  illow  little  in  hia  time   ibc^  d 

SiikU  tiirth  the  litraM^i  of  llirir  [laiit'nt'  Fnmt 

n-„rt),.  Would  write  fau  deathleM  di 

I     I'lilil  mi  liiiiidreH  |;>>t]<'n>iis  hiii^esl  fiHiK   '•  atop 

i  W>iviii}r  lik<-  molti-n  fiol.1  l.en.-jitli  ilii-  Mm.  O'"  '»"  <••>«  >"illifrto  hod  r 
!  l'r.Kli.im  Ihe  gli.rv  of  ||i.>h-  <|ui.-l  »e.-d« !  ;  -^'"l  '"""■'  '''*  very  time  M  LiflflO 
j  ll.-nin  li.-lii.lil  ihe  tUU  ami  truly  ■m-iit.i'^'"'  ""r-l  iii-'lullmunt  of  hk  fiuor  *■ 
'     He  iKilienl.  tlieii.  if  tliuM-.  with  s|H>i-ious  aits;  !>•'>■■)- 

])>.   iln.w  liirp-  uuilienei;   iiiid  j.'n-ut  «[.-"'■  I""'' "J'"™  "ntun-'-debCorffcllodB 


I       

I      ]>'ttl.<'>il!ll<>tli'.tlie 

j     Whii'h  wint:..-.l  Til 


e  the 


orthle: 


:  Itt'<|uimltiii<;  lu  the  worU  ■  kf^y 

I  i-liiirt'  '^  ''''*'  n'jion  that  doth  a 


ite   '''"■  J-'l'"";'  "f 
Lo:  him 
mid  !.» 
r'rom    lle.-i 


I  huitdrMl  Woluhii! 


rcn-pilc   dowB    to    TmIbm 

r  ilo  i-oiiipluiii.  if  tlii'e,  kin  to  the  f;nilK'-  niirht '. 

ilk  hen'  with  Ilieir  drviiiitv  eimeeiiletl.      Olix-un^for  faU  flow  tioMI  hacwHI  * 

ill  men  niiij-  wiilk  iii  iliiir  own  timeKJ  nuni — 

:il«rie.  lie  dwelt  iijiart.  ■*  if  the  ttni^Ht  F«l 

rli  -..iiU  thiil  livr'  in  ti-i>-<  vM  iilii-ome,      Iitleiiiliii;;  '■litht,  p 
.1  ».'  iinr  kii..»  til!  ili.ir  ...iiUiire  is  in.    Then  like  t<>V 

.M.  xy],..-.-  .h',-.,y  n.-h  li.'inv.t.  .kill  belAii.l  now  hi>  miffhl.T  auK gOM M  Mm 
v  i|M-,l.  ;Smiiiiii;  the  shodo«vfRiMthef«fci/a«! 


1850-60.] 


D. CARLYLB    MACCLOY 


507 


THE  MOQUIS. 

Westward  toward  the  setting  sun, 
Far  beyond  the  Gila's  sources, 

Lives  a  race  of  happy  men, 
On  their  laughing  river  courses. 

In  a  basin  'tween  the  Juan 

And  the  Colorado  stream, 
Where  fair  nature  seems  in  ruin, 

'Mid  the  desert  sands  that  gleam, 

Rise  some  gentle,  sloping  mountains, 
Studded  o'er  with  woodlets  green. 

Vocal  with  the  limpid  fountains 
Leaping  downward  in  their  sheen. 

Stretcheth  outward  from  the  bases 
Of  those  mountains  in  the  sand, 

A  sweet  valley,  and  embraces 
Many  a  rood  of  goodly  land. 

There  the  Moquis  in  the  glory 

Of  sweet  innocence  abide; 
For  'tis  better  to  grow  hoaiy 

In  simplicity  than  pride. 

Rich  their  cornfields  grow,  and  yellow, 
Plain  their  tables,  though  well  laden. 

Ripe  the  luscious  fruit,  and  mellow. 
Gilds  the  basket  of  the  maiden. 

And  those  simple  natives,  artless, 
Have  nor  our  boasted  manners, 

Have  nor  our  great  and  heartless, 
Nor  our  money-clutching  planners. 

There  they  need  no  midnight  warders, 
And  no  bolt  confines  the  door. 

For  no  theft  lurks  in  their  borders, 
To  molest  unguarded  store. 

There  fresh  nature  is  not  rusted, 
There  no  consciences  to  let, 

There  tlie  heart  is  not  all  cinisted 
Over  with  false  etiquette. 


There  young  love  knows  no  abortion. 
For  no  moneyed  reason  urges 

Slightest  hint  of  stingy  caution. 

To  suppress  the  warm  heart*s  surges. 

All  their  realm  the  desert  roundeth, 
And  they  seek  no  foreign  shore ; 

All  their  lives  contentment  boundeth, 
And  they  never  sigh  for  more ! 

Well  contented  with  sweet  labors, 

In  that  garden  paradisal, 
Never  do  they  harm  their  neighbors. 

Nor  for  wrong  make  sore  reprisal. 

War's  fell  implements  they  know  not, 
Save  the  simple  bow  and  arrow. 

And  for  conquest  lust  they  show  not, 
Though  their  lands  be  very  narrow. 

And  when  cruel  foemen  rattle 
In  full  harness  o'er  the  plain. 

They  find  naught  but  fiocks  of  cattle. 
And  the  waving  fields  of  grain : 

For  the  Moquis,  upward  climbing, 
Fly  the  danger  in  its  vastness. 

And  above  the  war  song's  chiming. 
Sit  secure  in  mountain  fastness. 

And  they  deem  it  wrong  to  offer 
Deep  resistance  unto  blood  ; 

For  they  think  it  best  to  suffer. 
Trusting  Providence  for  good. 

O  we  have  our  learned  sages, 
And  the  good  of  every  dime, 

And  we  have  the  thought  of  ages, 
All  concent'ring  in  our  time  : 

O  we  boast  our  homes  so  lighted 
By  the  torch  in  progress'  hand ! 

But  the  men  are  clearer-sighted. 
In  the  far-off  Moquis  land. 


ALFRED   BURNETT. 


Alfrkd  Burnett,  tliou;;h  bom  in  England  in  1825,  was  bred  a  W< 
his  ]Mirent8  having  emigrated  to  Cincinnati  when  he  wasi  a  lad.  Mr.  Burnett  m  wdl 
known  in  Cincinnati  as  a  Confectioner,  and  has  a  reputation  througfaoat  the  Wol  m  i 
su<!(*<^<sful  L<.H;turcr  on  P^loeution,  and  delineator  of  cliaracter.  He  hfts  been  cAbk 
and  publisher  of  several  ephemeral  periodicals,  and  has  contributed  |MKiBt  Id  ihe 
Louigciilc  Journal f  Godcy's  Ladif»  ISookj  the  Daily  Nonpareilj  and  other 
journals.  In  1847  he  published  a  |>amphlet  entitled  ^  Magnetiam  Made  Emj/ 
in  1869  a  little  volume  of  poema  and  recitations,  original  and  aelected. 


THE  SEXTONS  SPADE. 

All  battered  and  worn  id  the  sexton's 
spade. 

And  soon  'twill  be  thrown  aside ; 
It  hath  lasttnl  well,  and  many  a  grave 

I  lath  it  s]>aded  full  deep  and  wide ! 
And   many  a  tale  could  that  old  spade 
tell— 

Tah's  of  the  church-yanl  drear, 
Of  the  silent  step,  and  the  doleful  knell, 

Of  the  i*oirin,  shroud,  and  bier!  ' 


Wha*te  thought8  were   poret  end 
hearts  were  truth. 
But  who  now  tfleep  silentlj  I 
How  their  graves  were  flBide  ia  the 
mer-timc. 
When  the  flowers  around 
And  wreaths  were  made  of  the 
And  placed  oVr  their  browi  fo 


It  could  tell  us  of  manhood's  ilofv  dao^; 

And  how,  in  the  liour  aH  pride. 
The  spirit  hath  left  it^  houte  of  ckf, 

And  all  that  wa^i  mortal  died; 


It  could  tell  of  childrtMi  whodie*!  in  spring,;  How  the  autumn  leaves  thai 

When  roses  were  bhK>tning  aroinid,         I  ground 

Wliili-  the  moniing  lark  its  carol  would!      Wt -re  quietly  brushed 
sing 


As  it  flew  o'er  the  burial  ground! 
How  it  parted  aside,  with  its  iron  blade. 

The  irniss  which  st»  hit«*lv  gn*w ; 
Ami  a  ^nive  for  the  youii^  wa-*  ciirefully 
made, 

'Nniih  the  shade  of  the  bnuid-^pnwling 

V«'W. 


While   sorrowing  friends   \ 
around. 
When  the  clay  returned  onio  ckf  I 


It  could  tell  us  of  weak 

With  its  ieeble  step 
Who  gladly  >eized  upon  the 

The  f::mntlet  Death  did  throw; 


How  <!ravt's  were  made  when  old 

It  riiiiM  tell  of  those  in  the  hl(M>m  of  vouth,!  bri*ath 

•  '  1 

Wlio-i.'  ^t^•ps  wrn*  >o  lijjjlit  and  fn-e —     |     Had  blown  on  the 

(  Allh  ) 


1850-60.] 


ALFRED    BURNETT 


609 


^11  seasons  and  ages  belong  unto  Death — 
Youth,  manhood,  nor  age  will  he  spare ! 

A.11  battered  and  worn  is  the  sexton's  spade^ 

And  soon  'twill  be  thrown  aside ; 
It  hath  lasted  well,  and  many  a  grave 

Hath  it  shaped  both  deep  and  wide  I 
And  many  a  tale  could  that  old  spade  tell — 

Tales  of  the  church-yard  drear, 
Of  the  silent  step,  and  the  doleful  knell. 

Of  the  coffin,  shroud,  and  bier ! 


DEAR  MOTHER,  WAS  IT  RIGHT? 

To  the  grove  beyond  the  meadow 

Where  the  stream  goes  rippling  by, 
In  the  twihght,  yester  even. 

Wandered  young  Glennhold  and  I ; 
And  when  the  twilight  deepened 

Into  the  shades  of  night. 
Still  in  the  grove  we  lingered : 

Dear  mother,  was  it  right  ? 

Was  it  right,  my  dearest  mother, 

As  we  wandered  thus  along, 
For  his  arm  to  be  around  me  ? 

I'm  sure  he  meant  no  harm, — 
And  when  a  flitting  cloud,  mother, 

Had  hid  the  moon's  pale  light, 
His  lips  he  pressed  to  mine : 

Oh,  tell  me,  was  it  right  ? 

Should  I  have  then  repulsed  him, 

When  he  promised  to  be  true  ? 
In  such  an  hour,  dear  mother, 

What  should  a  maiden  do  ? 
My  heart  was  wildly  beating. 

As  if  with  sore  affright — 
Yet  I  felt  more  joy  than  sadness : 

Dear  mother,  was  it  right? 

Was  it  right  that  I  should  tell  him 
I  would  love  him  all  my  life, 

And  both  in  joy  and  sorrow 
Prove  a  true  and  loving  wife  ? 


And  now,  dear  mother,  tell  me, 
And  make  me  happy  quite, 

If  I  did  not  yester  e'en 
Act  womanlike  and  right  ? 


MY  MOTHER. 

Mother,  thy  locks  are  growing  gray, 
Thy  form  is  bent  with  years, 

And  soon  thou'lt  bid  farewell  to  earth- 
Its  joys,  its  hopes,  its  fears. 

Yet  time  hath  gently  dealt  with  thee ; 

Adown  life's  billowy  sea 
Thy  bark  hath  sailed  without  a  wave 

Of  dark  adversity  1 

Thou  who  first  taught  my  infant  lips 

To  syllable  thy  name. 
To  thee  I  dedie^ite  this  lay ; 

Thou  who  art  still  the  same — 

The  same  kind  mother  of  my  youth 
And  manhood's  wayward  years ; 

Ah !  mother  dear,  I  fear  I've  caused 
Thee  many  bitter  tears. 

I  know  I  can  not  e'er  repay 

The  wealth  of  love  that's  thine — 

A  mother's  love  cannot  be  told 
In  feeble  verse  of  mine. 

Yet  will  I  strive  to  be  as  thou 
Thyself  wouldst  have  me  be, 

And  know  in  doing  thus  I'll  prove 
Sincerest  love  to  thee. 

And  shouldst  thou  be  the  first  to  pass 
The  shadowy  vale  of  death, 

Thy  blessing,  mother,  be  it  mine 
E'en  with  thy  latest  breath. 

Then  shall  I  better  be  prepared 

To  battle  on  through  life. 
And  meet  thee  in  the  spirit-land, 

Afar  from  earthly  strife. 


FRANCES  FULLER  BAURITT. 


Fkancks  Fi'LLKK  Bakuitt  was  Iwm  at  Rome,  Now  York,  in  Maj,  182CL  W^ 
sIm*  was  four  }'<'arsoM  litT  pan'nts  n*  moved  to  the  '*piiu*rj'"  of  norfhem  Penwjlrjni 
and  tilt  ri\  for  scvrnil  vfars,  ^^^^*  enjovtMi  natiin.*  in  its  mcist  notable  mooday  remvi 
iin|»n's>ioiis  wliifli,  at  a  later  day,  (f>ine<i  tlit.'m<«'Ives  into  exprcHs^ioii.  In  I8S9d 
family  rf'niovc<I  to  W(K>sttT,  Ohio,  wliere,  under  the  influcmt-s  of  good 
g<KNl.sx*ial  ndations,  Fnuices  develoiM'd  rapidly.  To  >ueha  nature  a:s  Leri» 
i>  a  necessity;  hence  we  are  not  t*urprisi*d  to  learn  that,  at  the  age  of 
iM'came  an  lUH'i'ptablt*  contributor  to  tlie  pn'ss.  Ii4*sides  {Niemfl  to  the  local 
wi-ote  a  story  *' Seventy  Tiniest  Seven"  for  tin*  Philadelphia  Saiurdff^ 
a  highly  ]x)pular  journal  of  li«xht  litenitun? — ^all  of  which,  ibr  a  girl  of 
her  mind  to  l>e  one  of  no  on li nary  character.  She  Imd  for  a  eompanioii,  bMiiH  k 
si'>tcr  Metta,  a  f^irl  of  >iii;:iilar  endowments  of  mind.  Kmeline  IL  Brown,  wiv^iak 
brief  liff*,  mad(*  her  mark  as  a  jKX't.  Together,  thf*8e  three  reaJ  and  talked 
and  out  of  tlieir  youn^  dreams  came  the  resolves  which  both  Fi 
siiK'e  so  entirely  fulHlle<l,  namirlv,  to  mak(>  a  name  and  fiime  for  1 1 

Fnui(*es  early  bi>c:ime  a  contributor  to  the  leading  journal^  of  be11e4eCtre 

in  this  country.     In  1H4H  she  espe(*ially  8Uf.reedcd   in  arresting  attention  tlwo^gih  A 

colmuns  <»f  the  New  York  Home  JournnlyViXxMi^v  editor^^N.  P.WilluaDdG.P.Manrii^ 

not  hi*«itate  to  (five  her  a  fon*most  position  amonpr  curnMit  female  authors     **TW  Fort 

IJoy-s  Sonjr;' *•  Uevidutitm,"  -Kate,*' '•The  Old  Man's  FavorilP,''  «* Keala,"  «*Tkc  Dt 

sertril  City;*  *»Thc  Countr>'  K^muI/*  -The  Midni<rht  HHimer,"  *«  Vision  of  die  ftsi; 

-Sum;:  of  (he  Atre,"  wen*  |M)ems  which  si'r\'e<l  to  arn'st  Uie  attention  of  the  piw  4 

Kn;:1and  as  well  as  of  America.     Kdpir  A.  P(h\  in  his  somewhat  noted  paper  en  111 

(irlNwoltrs  volume  of  ^Female  Poets,*'  took  <Hvit< ion  to  refer  to  Miaa  Fuller  as 

the  '*mo>t  inia;;inative  *'  of  our  lady  |KK'ts.     The  |NM'ms  above  named 

ixed  by  a  [Miwer  of  diction  and  individuality  in  conception  whieh  gire  llica  ike  fan 

I     of  im:i«^iiiative  cn'ations ;  but  we  an'  di^|K>srd  to  think  her  geniiu  ia 

tivilv  "ima'iimiiive '*  acctinliii;;  to  Poe*s  definition  of  that  word.     She 

nliiiiit  spirit  and  i-learne>s  of  |H*n*eption  which  betray  |Miwer  and 

UKiv  be   iMTmiited  (lie  u^^e  of  >ucli  a  woni  in  •^jieakin;;  of  true  poctij; 

{><i  IM-.  I'm  11  of  tiiw  im:(;r<-i'y  and  ori^rinality  of  ronc-ptjon  (L^  they  are«  still 

\\  ;!i  Mm-   euiTer:n< t' tiie  n  :il  rather  thanx\iih  the  indefinitiveneM  of  the  M 

rii>  ;<|i|>'i<--  mnn'  |i:ir'ilriilar1v  io  the  pHNiuctioMo  oi'  her  earlier  veant— to  thope 

:ii-'>\<  :  li  -r  j'orm-  nf  l:ittr  M-ar<  ha\i'  ^n*own  more  intn)-i|N'clive,  show  a 

l<i\<-  III'  ii;iiiiri'  in  h't*  ipiift  niiMMN,  and  may,  iMThap-*.  U*  re*!anledaA  botb  ii 

tli.-iM  h<  r  e4im|H)oitiMn'>  pn'vious  to  l^(•»l. 

Mi-*  Fiillir*N  fn-^t  volume  was^iven  to  the  public  in  1851,iuider  the 

(510) 


1850-CO.] 


FRANCES    F.    BARRITT. 


611 


vision  of  the  late  Rufus  W.  Griswold.  It  embraced  most  of  the  compositions  named 
above,  and  others  of  very  decided  merit.  "  Azlea,  a  Tragedy,"  the  most  lengthy  of  her 
productions,  is  a  composition  marked  by  the  true  dramatic  instinct,  which,  while  it  carries 
along  the  thread  of  the  story,  with  a  firm  hand,  weaves  in,  with  a  subtle  perception  of 
the  fitness  of  position  and  scene,  the  lights  and  shades  of  character,  which  awaken  a 
living  personal  interest  in  the  drama.     It  was  written  in  1846. 

In  the  year  lSb3  Miss  Fuller  was  married  to  Jackson  Barritt,  of  Pontiac,  Michi- 
gan, to  which  State  she  had  removed  in  1852.  In  1855  Mrs.  Barritt  removed  to  the 
far  West,  in  quest  of  that  "  New  Atlantis  "  which  speculators  would  fain  have  us  believe 
lies  west  of  the  Missouri.  In  the  excitement  and  hardships  of  a  pioneer  life  the  poet 
had  little  incentive  to  write ;  yet  she  was  maturing  in  those  experiences  through  which 
all  must  pass  who  truly  and  fiilly  penetrate  the  great  mysteries  of  character  and  life. 
We  find  in  her  later  poems — ^among  which  we  may  mention  "  Passing  by  Helicon," 
'*The  Palace  of  Imagination,"  "Autumnalia,"  "Moonlight  Memories" — a  profound 
sense  of  circumstances  and  realities  of  existence,  which  shows  how  her  mind  has  la- 
bored with  itself. 

Mrs.  Barritt  has  been  drawn  into  the  great  literary,  as  it  is  the  great  commercial, 
metropolis  of  the  Union,  New  York  City,  like  other  leading  writers,  of  whom  the  West 
has  reason  to  be  proud.  Mrs.  Barritt  is  engaged  upon  various  literary  labors,  con- 
tributes to  our  leading  magazines  both  prose  and  poetry,  and,  should  her  life  be  spared, 
will  prove  one  of  our  most  successful  and  serviceable  authors. 


THE  POST-BOY»S  SONG. 

The  night  is  dark  and  the  way  is  long, 

And  the  clouds  are  flying  fast ; 
The  night-wind  sings  a  dreary  song, 

And  the  trees  creak  in  the  blast : 
Tlie  moon  is  down  in  the  tossing  sea, 

And  the  stars  shed  not  a  ray  ; 
The  lightning  flashes  frightfully, 

But  I  must  on  my  way. 

Full  many  a  hundred  times  have  I 

(lone  oVt  it  in  the  dark, 
Till  my  faithful  steeds  can  well  descry 

Each  long  familiar  mark : 
WithiiK  should  peril  come  to-night, 

(tO(1  Iiavci  us  in  his  care ! 
For  without  help,  and  without  light. 

The  boldest  well  beware. 


Like  a  shuttle  thrown  by  the  hand  of  &te. 

Forward  and  back  I  go : 
Bearing  a  thread  to  the  desolate 

To  darken  their  web  of  woe ; 
And  a  brighter  thread  to  the  glad  of  heart, 

And  a  mingled  one  to  all; 
But  the  dark  and  the  light  I  cannot  part, 

Nor  alter  their  hues  at  alL 

Now  on,  my  steeds  !  the  lightning's  fiash 

An  instant  gilds  our  way  ; 
But  steady !  by  that  dreadful  crash 

The  heavens  seemed  rent  away. 
Soho !  here  comes  the  blast  anew, 

And  a  pelting  flood  of  rain  ; 
Steady !  a  sea  seems  bursting  through 

A  rift  in  some  upper  main. 

'Tis  a  terrible  night,  a  dreary  hour. 
But  who  will  remember  to  pray 


512 


FRANCKS    F.   BARRITT. 


[\9^ 


That   the    care  of   the  storm-contrulling 
j)ower 
May  be  over  the  |)o>t-l)oy*8  way  ? 
Tlie  wayward  wanderer  from  his  hotiie, 

The  sailor  U]>oii  the  sea, 
Have  pntyerrt  to  bless  them  where  they. 
n)am — 
Who  thinketh  to  pniy  for  me  ? 

Hut  tlie  seenc  is  changed !    up  ride^  the 
moon 

Like  a  ship  uptm  the  soa ; 
Now  on  my  steeds!  this  glurious  noon 

Of  a  ni;;ht  so  dark  sliall  be 
A  scene  for  us  ;  toss  high  your  )iea<Is 

And  cheerily  sp<?(?d  away ; 
"We  shall  startle  the  slec}M»rs  in  their  beds  ■ 

Ik'fore  the  diiwii  of  day. 

Like  a  shuttle  thrown  by  tlie  hand  of  fate 

Forwanl  and  back  I  go :  ! 

H<^anng  a  thn^ml  tu  the  desolate 

To  darken  tln'ir  web  of  woe :  ' 

And  a  brighter  threu*!  to  the  glatl  of  heart. 

And  a  mingle<l  ow  for  all  ;  ' 

Hut  the  (Uirk  and  tlie  light  I  cannot  \niv\^ 

Nor  alter  their  hues  at  all. 


And  a  miplity  band  thej  oome. 
More  strung  than  the  boaU  of  M; 

Nor  bv  clari<in  blast  nor  drm 

If 

l>  their  ouwanl  march  forrtoU. 
But  wiili  tirra  and  silent  txvad. 

An<l  with  true  hearts  heaiinf  U^ 
On,  on  w  lie  re  the  wrung  hath 
They  will  vanquinh  it  or  die! 
And  they  iNuird  the  lion  in  hip  dm. 
With  the  fearless  souls  of  honeM 
Like  men  f>f  righl  and  mm  of  o^ghL 
Whose  heads,  not  hands,  decide  the  i^ 

Tell  not  of  the  ageif  put. 

There  is  darkne^  on  their  biw: 
For  truth  Ims  only  come  at  luc. 

Anil  the  only  time  is  now  ! 
Away  with  your  empty  love. 

And  vour  cunt  of  other  tiaaa. 

m 

For  mind  is  the  spell  o€  power^ 
Ye  will  learn  it^  might 
For  thi<  is  the  age  of  toiling 
Of  liberties  won,  and  broken 
Of  mfn  (if  right  and  men  of  might, 
Who>e  heads,  not  hamhs  decide  the  fgh 


S<)N(;  OF  THK  a(;e. 

Mkn  talk  of  the  in»n  agt* — 
Of  \\\r  gohliMi  age  ihi'V  prate, 

And  with  >igh  on  lip?*  so  sage 
DiMoiiF'^e  of  our  fallen  slate. 

Tlnv  l«  11  i»f  the  stalwart   frames 

m 

( )iir  L'allani  gnmdsires  bon- ; 
Iiii;.  lintior  to  tht-jr  g<Mid  names 


RF>:OLUTION. 

Room,  mom  for  the  freed  spirit!    L« 
fling 

Its  pinion^  worn  with  bondage  once  m 
wide, 
I  And  if  in  earth  or  air  there  is  a  thing 

To  stay  it-  m firing,  let  the  henven^  cU 
'  Away,  the  >ilken  bond:ige  of  joang dRfl 

No  nioi*e  in  gentle  dailianoe  m  hy 
:  Mv  hand  uiNin  my  lute,  like  one  whofca 

In  half  uncfinM-ioas  idleness  to  pbj- 


rill-  feiiturv  a-k-  tor  nion- : 

If 

It  :»*k-.  i'«ir  men  with  tlie  tuiling  brain<, 

Wli«i-e  wfini^  can  undii  the  ea])tive*s  ehains.  But  all  then*  is  in  roe  of  living 


Fur  iieii  lit"  riiilil  and   im-n  ol"  nii;:lit, 
WhoM'  In-aiJs  Hot  liand-*.  deeide  the  ti;:lit ! 


Of    high,  proud  daring  or  of  aoi 

tni>t. 


150-60.] 


FRANCES    F.   BARHITT. 


613 


hall  not  be  subject  longer  to  control ; 

For  my  desire  is  upward,  and  I  must 
purn  back  the  fetters  of  the  slothful  past 

As  the  loosed  captive  tramples  on  his 

chain; 
rom  now,  henceforth,  my  destiny  is  cast, 

And  what  I  will,  I  surely  shall  attain. 

nward   and   upward!    strengthening    in 

their  flight. 
My  thoughts  must  ^^all  be  eagle  thoughts," 

nor  bend 
heir    pinions   downward,   until    on    the 

height 
That  nurses  Helicon's  pure  fount  I  stand, 
nward  my  soul !  nor  either  shrink  nor 

turn, 
Be  cold  to  pleasure  and  be  calm  to  pain ; 
owever   much   the  yielding   heart  may 

yearn. 
Listen  not,  listen  not,  it  is  in  vain ! 

pward!    "a  feeling  like  the   sense  of 

wings," 
A  proud,  triumphant  feeling  buoys  me 

up, 
iid  my  soul  drinks  refreshment  from  the 

springs 
That  fill  forever  joy's  enchanted  cup. 
glorious  sense  of  power  within  me  lies, 
A  knowledge  of  my  yet  untested  strength, 
nd  my  impatient  spirit  only  sighs 
For  the  far  goal  to  attain  at  length. 


Like  those  clouds  that  dapple  the  June 
meadows, 
Make  its  chambers  rarely    dark   and 


THE  PALACE  OF  IMAGINATION. 

QLL  of  beauty,  full  of  art  and  treasure, 
Is  that  palace  where  my  soul  was  bound; 
lied  harmoniously  with  every  pleasure 
Sweet  to  sense,  or  exquisite  of  sound. 

{jht  whose  softness  rival  summer  shad- 

ows 

Shadows  only  softer  than  the  light, 


bright. 


Nightingales  are  nested  in  its  bowers ; 

Unseen  singers  stir  the  fragrant  air ; 
Fountains  drop  their  musical,  cool  shadows 

Lito  basins  alabaster  fair. 

Ancient  myths  are  storied  here  in  marble. 
Busts  of  poets  people  every  nook — 

Forms  so  like  the  living,  that  the  warble 
Of  their  voices  thrills  you  as  you  look. 

Rare  creations  of  all  times  and  ages. 

Wrought  by  inspiration  of  high  art, 
Live  in  sculpture,  speak  from  gilded  pages, 

Throng  with  beauty  its  remotest  part. 

In  this  Palace  did  my  soul  awaken. 

From  what  Past  it  thirsted  not  to  know; 

With  the  bright  existence  it  had  taken 
Wandering,     tranced — like     Cherubim 
a-glow. 

Till,  from  dreaming,  rose  unquiet  fancies — 
Frightful  phantoms  glided  in  and  out: 

Gnomes  and  ghouls  read  of  in  old  ro- 
mances, 
Haunted  all  its  shadowy  halls  about  I 

Then  my  soul  sat  with  averted  vision, 
Cold  and  pallid  in  a  nameless  fear, 

Seeing  with  inward  eyes  a  new  elysian 
Dream  of  pleasure,  inaccessible  here. 

And  she  uttered,  sighing  deep  and  sadly, 

"  Here,  though  all  b  fair,  yet  all  is  cold; 
I  would  change  my  matchless  palace  glad- 

For  one  hour  of  life  in  love's  warm 

fold." 

This  she  said,  and  straight  the  sapphire 
air 
Li  the  palace,  rosy  grew,  and  gold ; 


33 


514 


FRANCKS    F.   BaRKITT. 


[1^ 


Statues  pale,  and  pictures  heavenly  fair, 
Bliislu'd  and    breathed  like  forms    of 
earthly  mould. 

Happy  laughter  with  the  zephyrs  mingled. 
Sweet  young  voices  murmured  Lovers 
soil  wonis ; 
Lightning  rays  along  my  soul-nerves  tin- 
gled. 
Till  it  fluttered  like   its  young  brood 
birds. 

Now  my  soul  no  longer  pale  or  pining, 
"With  sweet  mirth  makes  its  rare  palace 
sound; 

Golden  light  through  every  shadow  shining* 
Shows  the  beauty  lying  waste  around. 


PASSING  BY  HELICON. 

My  steps  are  turned  away ; 
Yet  my  eyes  lingi-r  still, 
On  their  beloved  hill. 
In  one  long,  last  survey  : 
Gazing    through  tears,  that   multiply  the 
view, 
Their  passionate  adieu. 

0,  joy-unclou<l(Ml  hei^rlit, 

Down  whose  enchanted  sides, 
The  rosy  mist  now  glides. 
How  can  I  lose  thv  sijjht? — 
How  can  my  eyes  turn  where  my  feet  must 

go. 
Trailing  their  way  in  woe? 

Gone  is  my  stieiiL'th  of  heart; — 
The  roM's  that  I  hroii;:lit, 
Fnnu  thv  dear  l»nwtTS,  and  thought 
To  k«<'p,  since  wr  niu>t  part — 
Thy  tlioriil«»ss  rosrs,  sweeter  until  now, 
Than  *round  llymettus'  brow. 


Tlie  golden-Teztted  bees 
Find  swcrcest  »i 
Such  odon  dwelt  within 
The  moist  red  hearU  of 
Alas,  no  longer  give  out  bliMful  Uvtik 
But  odors  rank  with  deailL 


Their  dewiness  is  dank; 
It  chills  my  pallid 
Once  blushing  *neath 

And  their  i^reen  sitenu 
Stricken  with  lepixxtj,  and  fair  ao 

But  withered  to  the 


Vain  thought!  to 
Into  this  torrid 
Whence  no  one  tamcth 

With  his  first  wanderei^s 
Yet  on  his  lips,  thy  odoni  and  ihj  den 

To  deck  these  dwarfed  jewi^ 


No  more  within  thj 

B<^ide  thy  plashing  wefli, 
Where  sweet  Euterpe  dwdk 
With  songs  of  nighthigalei» 
And  sounds  of  flutes  that  make 
glow, 
Shall  I  their  rapture  know- 
Farewell,  ye  stalely  palms ! 
Clashing  your  cjrmbal 
In  through  the  mjstie 
Of  pines  at  solemn 
Ye  myrtles,  singing  Lore's  i 
We  part,  and  part  for  lo^g! 

Farewell  majestic  pi^ks! 
Whereon  mj  listening  soa 
Hath  tr«*mb1ed  lo  the  roll 

Of  thunders  which  Jore 
And  calm  Minerva's  oracles  hath 

All  more  than  now  luutiini! 


Adieu,  ye  beds  of  bloom  I 
No  more  shall  aepbyr 
To  me,  upon  his 


50-60.] 


FRANCES   F.  BARRITT. 


615 


Your  loveliest  perfume ; 
0  more  upon  jour  pure,  immortal  djes. 
Shall  rest  mj  happy  eyes. 

I  pass  by :  at  thy  foot 
O,  mount  of  my  delight ! 
Ere  yet  from  out  thy  sight 

I  drop  my  voiceless  lute ; 
is  in  vain  to  strive  to  carry  heooe 

Its  olden  eloquence. 

Your  sacred  groves  no  more 
My  singing  shall  prolong, 
With  echoes  of  my  song 
Doubling  it  o*er  and  o*er. 
[aunt  of  the  muses,  lost  to  wistful  eyes 
What  dreams  of  thee  shall  rise  I 

Rise  but  to  be  dispelled, — 
For  here  where  I  am  cast, 
Such  visions  may  not  last, 

By  sterner  fancies  quelled  : — 
elentless  Nemesis  my  doom  hath  sent, 

This  cruel  banishment ! 


CHILDHOOD. 

CHILD  of  scarcely  seven  years — 
Light-haired,  and  fair  as  any  lily ; 
ith  pure  eyes  ready  in  their  tears 
At  chiding  words  or  glances  chilly : 
id  sudden  smiles  as  inly  bright 
As  lamps  through  alabaster  shining, 
ith  ready  mirth  and  fancies  light, 
Dashed  with  strange  dreams  of  child- 
divining: 
child  in  all  infantile  grace, 
!;t  with  the  angel  lingering  in  her  face. 

curious,  eager,  questioning  child, 
Whose  losic  leads  to  naive  conclusions 
(^r  little  knowledge  reconciled 
To  truth,  amid  some  odd  confusions: 


Yet  credulous,  and  loving  much, 

The  problems  hardest  for  her  reason ; 

Placing  her  lovely  faith  on  such, 
And  deeming  disbelief  a  treason ; — 

Doubting  that  which  she  can  disprove, 

And  wisely  trusting  all  the  rest  to  love. 

Such  graces  dwell  beside  your  hearth, 

And  bless  you  in  a  priceless  pleasure ; 
Leaving  no  sweeter  spot  on  earth 

Than  that  which  holds  your  household 
treasure. 
No  entertainment  ever  yet 

Had  half  the  exquisite  completeness — 
The  gladness  without  one  regret, 

You  gather  from  your  darling's  sweet- 
ness: 
An  angel  sits  beside  the  hearth, 

Where'er  an  innocent  child  ic  found  on 
earth. 


AUTUMNALIA 

The  crimson  color  lays 
As  bright  as  beauty's  blush  along  the  West : 

And  a  warm,  golden  haze, 
Promising  sheafs  of  ripe  autumnal  days 

To  crown  the  old  year's  crest, 
Hangs  in  mid-air,  a  half-pellucid  maze, 

Through  which  the  sun,  at  set, 
Grown  round  and  rosy,  looks  with  Bacchian 
blush. 

For  an  old  wine-god  meet. 
Whose  brows  are  dripping  with  the  grape- 
blood  sweet. 

As  if  his  Southern  flush 
Rejoiced  him  in  his  Northern-zoned  retreat 

The  amber-colored  air, 
Musical  is  with  hum  of  tiny  things 

Held  idly  struggling  there, — 
As  if  the  golden  mist  untangled  were 

About  the  viewless  wings 
That  beat  out  music  on  the  gilded  snare. 


516 


FRANCES   F.  BARRITT. 


I 


If  but  a  leaf,  all  gaj 
Witli  autumn's  gorgeous  coloring,  doth  fall. 

Along  its  fluttering  waj 
A  fthrill  alarum  wakes  a  sliarp  dismaj, 

And,  answering  to  the  call, 
The  insect  chorus  swells  and  dies  away. 

With  a  tine,  piping  noise, 
As  if  some  younger  singing  mote  cried  out; 

As  do  mischievous  boys, 
Startling  their  playmates  with  a  pained 
voice. 

Or  sudden,  thrilling  shout. 
Followed  by  laughter,  full  of  little  joys. 

Perchance  a  lurking  breeze 
Springs,  just  awakened,  to  its  wayward 
play, 
TosMng  tlie  sober  trees 
Into  a  tliousand  graceful  vagaries  ; 

And  snatching  at  the  gay 
Banners  of  autumn,  strews  them  where  it 
please. 

The  sunset  colors  glow 
A  second  time  in  flame  from  out  the  wood, 

As  bright  and  warm  as  though 
The  vanished  clouds  had  fallen  and  lodged 
below 

Among  the  tree-tops,  hued 
With  all  the(*olorsof  heaven's  signal  bow. 

The  fitful  breezes  die 
Into  a  gentle  whis{>er,  and  then  sleep ; 

And  sweetly,  mounifully, 
Stalling  to  sight  in  the  trunsfiarent  sky — 

I-,<me  in  the  *'upp«T  dee|>," 
S:ui  lif.*s}K.'r  (>ours  its  bi^ams  upon  the  eye, 

And  for  one  litth*  hour 
liulds  audience  with  the  h.'sser  liglits  of 
heaven ; 

Tlit'n,  to  its  WVsteni  bower 
DcM't'iitls  in  sudden  darknos,  as  the  flower 

Tliul  at  the  fall  of  ev«'n 
Sliiit^  its  bright  eye,  iuid  yiidds  to  sorrow's 

|>OWtT. 


Soon,  with  m  dnskj 
Pensive  and  proud  m 
queen. 
And  with  m  solemn 
The  moon  ascendii  and  takoi 
place 
In  the  fair  evening  fleene, 
And  Night  sits  crowned  in 
embraoo. 

My  soul,  filled  to  the  brim. 
And  half  intoxicate  i 

Sighs  out  its  happy  hjnm ; 
And  in  the  overflow  my  ejaa 

With  a  still  happmem; 
Till,  voiceless  with  the 
dream, 

I  yield  my  spirit  ap  nnto  the 
Of  perfect  peace,  tad  by  ila 


dm 


A    LITTLE    BIRD    THAT 


There  is  m  bird,  with  a 
A  little  bird  that  every 
(Tliougli  it  sings  for  the 

the  rose), 
Tliat  is  petted  and  pampered 
it  goes, 
And  nourished  in 


This  petted  bird  haa  a 

And  vyi^  like  live 

And  a  gray  breaat,  dappled 
ntl — 

I)abhh*<K  not  dappled,  it 
Fnini  a  fancy  it  has  of  which  I 


•himldW 


This  i^'f^i'ntricity  that  I 
Is,  tliat  wliatever  the  biid 
It  <li|»  its  bkck  head  mider 
And    moistens     itt 
tiling  I — 

A  huuuui  heart  that  it 


1850-60.] 


FRANCES    F.    BARRITT. 


617 


Then  this  cherished  bird  its  song  begins — 
Always  begins  its  song  one  way — 
With  two  little  dulcet  words — ^''They 

say"— 
Carroled  in  such  a  charming  way 

That  the  listener's  heart  it  surely  wins. 

This  sweetest  of  songsters,  sits  beside 
£very  hearth  in  this  Christian  land, 
Never  so  humble  or  never  so  grand, 
Gloating  o*er  crumbs,  which  many  a 
hand 

Gathers  to  nourish  it,  far  and  wide. 

0*er  each  crumb  that  it  gathers  up 
It  winningly  carols  those  two  soft  words, 
In  the  winning  voice  of  the  sweetest  of 

birds — 
Darting  its  black  head  under  its  wing, 

As  it  might  in  a  ruby  drinking-cup. 

A  delicate  thing  is  this  bird  withal, 
And  owns  but  a  fickle  appetite. 
And  old  and  young  take  a  keen  delight 
In  serving  it  ever,  day  and  night 

With  the  last  gay  heart,  now  turned  to  gall. 

Thus,  though  a  dainty  dear,  it  sings, 
In  a  very  well-conditioned  way, 
A  truly  wonderful  sort  of  lay. 
While  its  burden  is  ever  the  same — 
"They  say," 

I)arting  its  crooked  beak  under  its  wings. 


WAITING. 

No  fairer  eve  e'er  blessed  a  poet's  vision. 

No  softer  airs  e'er  kissed  a  fevered  brow, 
No  scene  more  truly  could  be  called  ely- 
sian, 
Than  this  which  holds  my  gaze  enchant- 
ed now. 


Lonely  I  sit,  and  watch  the  fitful  burning 
Of  prairie  fires  far  off,  through  gathering 
gloom. 
While  the  young  moon  and  one  bright  star 
returning 
Down  the  blue  solitude,  leave  night  their 
room. 

Grone  is  the  glimmer  of  the  eternal  river. 
Hushed  is  the  wind  that  ope'd  the  leaves 
to-day; 
Alone    through  silence  falls   the  crystal 
shiver 
Of  the  calm  starlight  on  it«  earthward 
way, 

And  yet  I  wait,  how  vainly  I  for  a  token — 
A  sigh,  a  touch,  a  whisper  ftx)m  the  past ; 

Alas,  I  listen  for  a  word  unspoken. 

And  wail  for  arms  that  have  embraced 
their  last 

I  wish  no  more,  as  once  I  wished,  each 
feeling 
To  grow  immortal  in  my  happy  breast ; 
Since  not  to  feel,  will  leave  no  wounds  for 
healing; 
The  pulse  that  thrills  not  has  no  need  of 
rest 

As  the  conviction  sinks  into  my  spirit 
That  my  quick  heart  is  doomed  to  death 
in  life; 
Or  that  these  pangs  shall  wound  and  never 
sear  it, 
I  am  al^andoned  to  despairing  strife. 

To  the  lost  life,  alas!   no  more  return- 
ing— 
In  this  to  come  no  semblance  of  the 
past — 
Only  to  wait  I — hoping  this  ceaseless  yearn- 
ing 
May  ere  long  end — and  rest  may  come 
at  last 


METTA  VICTORIA  VICTOR. 


Metta  Victoria  Fullkk  was  bom  in  Eric,  PennsyKania,  Hareh  wetomL  li3! 
— tlie  third  child  of  n  family  of  five,  of  whom  Frances  A.  Fuller  (Mis.  Barrin;  «i 
the  eldest.  From  mere  childhooil  she  manifested  a  love  for  books  of  fiuMj  aai  pKtt; 
and  undertook  rhythmic  com|)o:iiition  before  the  age  of  ten  years  with  a  wifwn  vkic 
rendered  her  a  prodigy  in  the.  eyes  of  teacherH  and  acholam.  Her  pareBts  kmiV  '' 
moved  to  Wooster,  Ohio,  in  183D,  she  then  enjoyed  for  tseverml  yean  the 
of  gixxi  schools.  Her  mental  development  was  rapid.  At  the  age  of 
she  really  commencetl  the  career  of  authorship  which,  with  slight 
has  successfully  pursued  up  to  the  present  time.  **  The  Silver  Lute,**  aa 
tale  which  was  widely  admired,  was  written  and  published  in  1844. 

Between  tlie  ages  of  tliirteen  and  fiik*en,  Miss  Fuller  produced  Biaay 
tales — all  of  which  met  with  great  favor  at  the  hands  of  local  publishers  Ai  Mm 
she  wrote  the  romance  ^  The  Loist  Days  of  Tul " — founded  upoa  the  aappOHd  Uai 
ry  of  the  dead  cities  of  Yucatan.  It  was  published  in  Boston  in  184€i.  At  the  ^ 
of  sixteen,  she  produced  stones  of  much  brilliancy  of  fancy — and  thea  Bade  a  M 
iant  debut  in  the  New  York  Home  Joumaly  edited  by  Nathaniel  P.  Wiffis 
P.  Morris,  and  for  some  time  was  the  ^briglit,  |>articular  star"  of  that 
Willis  wrote  of  her,  and  her  sister,  Frances  A.  (likewise  a  special  eootribalDr  li  A 
Journal): 


We  nippose  ournelvefl  to  be  throwing  no  shade  of  dinparogcmont  vpoo  anj 
in  "  Singing  Sybil"  (Mim  FuIKt's  nam  deptumt),  and  her  not  IfM  giflnl  ristcr 
ni()ro  unqucHtionablu  marks  of  true  guniuHf  and  a  gniitiT  portion  of  the 
of  trui>  (RNitic  art  than  in  any  uf  the  lady  minstrvlH— delightful  and  splendid  as 
bcrn—  that  we  have  horctoforo  Ui'bfn'd  to  the  applauw  of  the  public.    One  in  ipMl* 
f,^'niui*,  the<(e  mo!«t  inttTesting  and  brilliant  ludicx— lM)th  still  in  the  esrlirtt 
ly  destined  to  occupy  a  very  dlFtinguished  and  pi-rmanent  place  among  the 
land. 


IIi«rh  praise  when  we  consider  that  it  was  "Fanny  Forester,* 
May,"  and  ^  Gr.ic<»  Gn-'enwood,**  whom  he  hud  **u^he^ed  to  the  applaose  of  the : 
Among  the  tales  furnished  the  Journal  wen*,  **  The  Tempter :  a  aeqael  to  the  Wii 
derin^rJew;"  *»The  Lost  Glove;"  <' Mother  and  Daughter" — all  of 
I)ubli>hed  fur  and  wide.     Her  })oetic  contributions,  during  the 
(>u<,  and  served  to  excite  considerable  remark  in  critical  circles. 

The  first  volume  of  iM>ems  of  the  sisters  was  collected  under  the  ediloni^sf  Ai 

latt^  Hufus  W.  Ciriswohi,  and  published  by  A.  S.  Barnes  &  Col,  m  ISMl     la  ikt  U 

of  {\\v  >anie  year  Derby  &  Co.,  of  Buffalo,  gathered  together  and  pnhBihcJ  a 

of  st(»riiw  from  the  p«'n  <if  ^letui,  under  the  title  **  Fre«h  Leaves  from  Westcra  Wi 

It  iiicludrd  ^^Th<?  Tempter,"  the  ^Silver  Lute,"  the  «*Lost  Giore,"    '^Umkami 

Daughter,"  etc.;  and,  sl^  a  publishers*  venture,  proved  a  sueoeiS*     ^Tha  Sflrtv'i 

(518) 


1850-60.]  METTA    V.    VICTOR.  619 

Son ;  a  plea  for  the  Maine  Law,"  was  brought  out  in  the  fall  of  1851.  Six  large 
editions  of  this  work  have  been  sold  in  this  country,  and  a  sale  of  thirty  thousand 
copies  in  England  was  acknowledged  by  the  foreign  publishers. 

The  years  between  1852  and  1855  were  devoted  by  Miss  Fuller  almost  entirely  to 
study — only  venturing  upon  authorship  to  write  an  occasional  "  prize  story,"  or  to 
fulfill  a  magazine  engagement.  During  these  years  she  carefully  canvassed  the  field 
of  English  Literature  in  its  higher  walks  of  Philosophy,  Criticism,  Biography  and 
Poetry.  In  1856  Derby  &  Jackson,  of  New  York,  published  "The  Two  Wives,"  a 
sad  story  (founded  in  fact)  of  the  ruin  wrought  by  the  Moi'mon  faith.  The  work  still 
has  a  good  sale. 

In  July,  1856,  Miss  Fuller  was  united  in  marriage  to  O.  J.  Victor,  and  removed, 
the  year  following,  to  New  York  City,  where  she  still  resides,  pursuing  the  career  of 
authorship  successfully. 

Mrs.  Victor  is  understood  to  be  the  author  of  those  humorous  papers  published  in 
Godey's  Lady's  Book,  entitled  "  The  Tallow  Family  in  America,"  and  "  Miss  Slim- 
men's  Window;"  collected  and  published  in  an  illustrated  volume  by  Derby  &  Jack- 
son, of  New  York,  in  1859.  She  is  also  said  to  be  the  author  of  several  humorous 
and  satirical  poems  which  have  excited  no  little  curiosity  in  literary  circles,  viz.: — 
"What's  in  a  Name?  a  High  Life  Tragedy;"  "Starting  the  Paper;"  "The  Stilts  of 
Gold;"  "The  Ballad  of  Caleb  Cornstalk."  The  "  Arctic  Queen  "—a  poem  of  marked 
originality  and  of  striking  character — published  in  a  private  edition  at  Sandusky, 
Ohio,  in  1856,  is  from  her  pen.  Those  somewhat  remarkable  stories  published  in 
the  Ari  Journal,  of  New  York  City,  «  Painted  in  Character,"  "  The  Phantom  Wife," 
"  From  Arcadia  to  Avernus,"  are  attributed  upon  good  authority  to  her  hand.  It  will 
be  perceived  by  this  record  of  her  labors  that  Mrs.  Victor  is  unusually  endowed;  her 
success  has  been  remarkable  in  poetry  of  imagination  and  fancy:  in  humor  and 
satire,  prose  and  verse ;  in  fiction  and  romance ;  in  tales  of  purely  imaginative  creation ; 
as  well  as  in  the  departments  of  literary  criticism,  and  essays  upon  popular  themes. 

The  selections  for  these  pages  are  made  from  late  poems  Mrs.  Victor  has  acknowl- 
edged. It  is  to  be  hoped  that  she  will  confess  to  the  ownership  of  the  humorous 
poems  above  named,  by  gathering  them  for  publication  in  a  volume.  It  will  prove  an 
acceptable  contribution  to  our  humorous  literature. 

"  Body  and  Soul "  is  a  poem  of  true  inspiration.  It  shows  a  power  in  its  develop- 
ment which  renders  its  impression  a  lasting  one.  It  has  come  back  from  England 
with  high  approval.  "  The  Red  Hunters,"  as  a  description  of  the  fearful  phenomenon 
of  a  prairie  on  fire,  is  a  vivid,  stirring  characterization.  "The  Honeysuckle"  stands 
in  strong  contrast  to  these  two  just  named,  being  a  pure  piece  of  fancy,  woven  with 
exquisite  grace,  and  showing  the  author's  extreme  sensibility  to  the  spiritual  expres- 
sions of  nature.  "The  Two  Pictures"  has  the  fire  of  imagination  in  its  finely 
rhy thmed  diction.  "  The  Wine  of  Parnassus  "  is  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  a  poet  who 
has  quaffed  deeply  at  the  Pamassean  spiing. 


520 


METTA    V.    VICTOR. 


[MM 


THE  RED  HUNTERS. 

Out  of  the  wo<xl  at  midni<;ht, 

Tlie  swift  red  hunters  came ; 
The  prairie  wa«  their  hunting-ground, 

The  bison  were  their  gaine. 
Their  spears  were  of  gli;>t  ning  silver. 

Their  cn^sts  were  of  blue  and  gold ; 
Driven  by  tlie  panting  winds  of  heaven, 

Their  shining  chariots  rolled. 

Over  that  level  hunting-ground — 

Oh,  what  a  strife  was  tliere ! 
Wliat  a  sliouting — wlmt  a  threat*ning  cry — 

What  a  murmur  on  the  air! 
Their  garments  over  the  glowing  wheels 

Streamed  backwanl  re<l  and  far; 
They  flouted  their  puii»le  banners 

In  the  face  of  eadi  pale  6tar. 

Under  their  tread  the  autumn  flowers 

By  myriads  withering  hiy  ; 
Poor  thuigs!  thatfi-om  those  golden  wheels 

Could  nowhere  shrink  away ! 
Close,  and  cnL»*hing  together, 

The  envious  chariots  rolled, 
'While,  anon  Ixrfore  his  fellows 

Leaped  out  some  hunter  bold. 

Their  hot  breath,  thick  and  lowering, 

AlK)ut  their  wild  vyes  hung. 
And,  around  their  frowning  forehcatls, 

Like  wreaths  of  nightshade  clung. 
The  bison !  ho,  the  bison ! 

Thvy  cried,  and  answered  back  ; 
P<H»r  henls  of  frightened  crt^atures, 

With  such  hunters  on  their  track ! 

With  a  weary,  lumlwring  swiftness, 

They  sought  the  river's  side, 
l)riv«*n  by  those  huntiTs  fnnn  their  sleep 

Into  its  chilHn<v  tide. 
Soiin'  lac«'  th<'ir  foe,  with  anjjuish 

Dilatin;^  thrir  brute  eyrs — 
Thv  s|)<*:ir^  of  >ilv*'r  strike  thrm  low. 

And  drad  varh  suppliant  lies. 


Now,  by  the 

The  red  hunten  stand  at  bajr; 
Vfun  the  appalling  «pleiidof^^ 

The  river  shiekki  their  prey ! 
Into  its  waves,  with  ballled  nge, 

They  leap  in  deatL*« 
Their  golden  wheels  roll 

And  leave  the  withered  oigbk 


BODY  AND  80UL. 


A  LIVING  soul  came  into  die 
Whence  came  it  ?    Who  can  teDf 

Or  where  that  soul  went  forth  i^gBBi 
When  it  bade  the  world  fcrewcD? 


A  body  it  had,  this  spirit 

And  the  body  was  giTon  a 
And  chance  and  change 

About  its  being  came. 
Whether  the  name  would  ndt  dM 

The  givers  never  knew— 
Names  arc  alike,  but  never 

So  body  and  spirit 
Till  time  enlai^ged  th 

Into  the  realms  of  life. 
Into  this  strange  and  douhle 

Whose  elements  are  ai 


Twere  ea:>y  to  tell  the  daflj 

Walked  by  the  body's  lee^ 
To  mark  where  the 
laid, 

Or  where  the 
To  tell  if  it  hungered,  or  what  itt 

I^gi'd,  or  phiin,  or  rare ; 
Wliat  was  its  forehead     what  i 

Or  the  hue  of  iu  eyes  and 


Hut  these  are  all  in  the 

And  the  spirit — ^where  is  k? 

Will  any  say  if  the  hue  of  the  eja^ 
Or  the  dress  for  that  was  it? 


] 


METTA   V.    VICTOR. 


521 


y  one  say  what  daily  paths 

spirit  went  or  came — 
;r  it  rested  in  beds  of  flowers, 
irunk  upon  beds  of  flame  ? 
y  one  tell,  upon  stormy  nights, 
n  the  body  was  safely  at  home, 

amid  darkness,  terror,  and  gloom, 
•lend  was  wont  to  roam  ? 

upon  hills  beneath  the  blue  skies, 
ited  sofl  and  still, 
straight  out  of  its  half-closed  eyes, 

friend  went  wandering  at  will? 

3  the  bliss  of  the  highest  heaven, 
as  the  lowest  hell, 
ope  and  fear  it  winged  its  way 
oumeys  none  may  tell. 

►n  the  rose's  fragrant  breast, 
thed  in  the  ocean  deep, 
i  in  a  ship  of  sunset  doud, 
it  heard  the  rain-cloud  weep, 
led  with  naiads  in  murmurous  caves, 
IS  struck  by  the  lightning's  flash, 
k  from  the  moonlit  lily-cup, 
ard  the  iceberg's  crash. 

ited  places  of  old  renown, 

isked  in  thickets  of  flowers ; 

on  the  wings  of  the  stormy  wind, 

earned  through  the  star-lit  hours, 

I  soul's  strange  history 

?r  was  written  or  known, 

1  the  name  and  age  of  its  earthly 

rt 

T^ven  upon  the  stone ! 

1,  and  overcame  its  hate — 
v^ed  to  youth's  excess — 
mad  with  anguish,  wild  with  joy, 
id  visions  to  grieve  and  to  bless ; 
k  of  the  honey-dew  of  dreams, 
it  was  a  poet  true ; 
of  nature  and  secrets  of  mind, 
teriously  it  knew. 


Should  mortals  question  its  history. 

They  would  ask  if  it  had  gold — 
If   it  bathed    and    floated  in    deeps  of 
wealth — 

If  it  traded,  and  bought,  and  sold. 
They  would  prize  its  worth  by  the  outward 
dress 

By  which  its  body  was  known : 
As  if  a  soul  must  eat  and  sleep. 

And  live  on  money  alone ! 

It  had  no  need  to  purchase  lands. 

For  it  owned  the  whole  broad  earth ; 
'Twas  of  royal  rank,  for  all  the  past 

Was  its  by  right  of  birth. 
All  beauty  in  the  world  below 

Was  its  by  right  of  love. 
And  it  had  a  great  inheritance 

In  the  nameless  realms  above. 

It  has  gone !  the  soul  so  little  known — 
Its  body  has  lived  and  died — 

Gone  from  the  world  so  vexing,  small : 
But  the  Universe  is  wide  I 


THE  WINE  OF  PARNASSUS. 

The  wine  of  Parnassus  is  mingled  with 
fire; 

It  is  drunken  with  pleasure  and  pain : 
Who  quaffs  of  it  once  must  forever  desire 

Its  ethereal  fumes  in  his  brain. 

It  is  drugged  with  a  sadness  immortally 
deep. 
That  low  down    in    the   beaker  doth 
swim ; 
While  the  silvery  bubbles  of  joy  overleap. 
Or  in  splendor  subside  on  the  brim. 

And  the  grapes,  ah !  the  grapes  that  were 
torn  from  the  breast 
Of  the  clinging  and  passionate  vine— 


522 


METTA    V.  VICTOR. 


[Ul^ 


The  lite  from  tlieir  hearts  in  its  richnc8s 
was  pressed 
To  secure  this  ambrosia  divine. 

T'ls  as  full  of  delight  as  the  grapes  were 

of  juice, 

Likn  th(*ir  amethyst  bloom  is  its  hue ; 

It  hi\s  drank  from  the  sunlight  its  glory 

pnifuse, 

It  luis  drank  from  the  roses  their  dew. 

And  yet  it  lias  stoFn  all  the  gloom  of  the 
night. 
And  of  Dian*s  sad  eves,  o'er  the  hill 
Aft  they  lH*am  in  their  beauty  forlornly  yet 
bright, 
And  the  mists  in  the  valley  grow  chill. 

In  goblets  of  Juno*s  white  lilies  so  sweet 
It  is  servi?<l  bv  the  Gods  to  the  few 

Who   can    drink    the   to]>   s{mrkles    most 
bright  and  most  fliM*t, 
And  still  drink  till  the  dregs  are  in  view. 

The   ethereal   bliss   flowing  fast  tlirough 
each  vein 
The  aromas  of  earth  yielded  up, 
llxii  the  fire  risking  fast  to  the  agonized 
bniin 
Hy  Prometheus  was  mixed  in  the  cup. 

Who   can    bear    the    sweet    anguish   of 
Heaven's  pure  lire? 
Who  will  drug  his  own  soul  with  de- 
spair?— 


The  gods  whal  they  will  of  the  l«nR  i 
past 
Through  these  onwdes  boUlj 


The  chill  of  tlie  caves  where  k 
the  glow 
Of  the  hilU  where  it  grew,  ■uaflr  i^ 
Who  am  bear,  like  a  god,  faoch  iu  n 
tures  and  woe. 
He  shall  quaff  from  the  mjatieal 


THE  TWO  PiCTURBB. 

A  PAiXTER  painted  a  picture  §ar 

I  know  not  whether  with  color  or 
Whether  on  eanvas  or  air  it 

Whether  I  saw  tlio  TiMoo 
A  picture  it  was,  both  wide  and  h%ilr 

Nine-tenths  of  the   world  hal  a  |hi 
therein : 
The  light  was  all  in  the  lifted  Aj— 

Beneath,  were  the 
Sin. 


I  saw — ah !  what  did  I  not  o 
That  wouki  sadden  the  eonl  to  M  ai 
know  ? 
All  l)odilv  anguish  and  heart  daipH^ 
And,  iar  the   worM,  wae  the  SfUft 
wo«* : — 
The  baby  wtio  pined  Ibr  milk 


Th«»  n>ses  whose  o«lors  wake  endless  desins ;     '^'•*^'  "pother  who  watched  k 


The  ]M>ppies  of  dreams,  who  in\n  bear?  i 


h'ss  eves 


The  father  wlio  plotted 

If  he  sei'ks  but  the  bliss  that  perfumcth  head — 

t}i«*  top. 
If  he  seeks  but  its  !*we<'tness  divine, 
L4't  liiin  leave  it,  for  anguish  and  joy,  drop 
for  dn»p. 
An-  <-\ pressed  in  this  extpiisite  wine. 


■  Il 


The  sister  who  fell  when  ehs 

rise: 


Tlif  lips  tli'it   have  thrillt-d  at  the  goblet 
Witii  a  madness  th<'V  ranuol  forbear: 


The  laborer  eating  hit 

In  many  a  struige 
Now  by  the  roadside^  cnmched  m  tkt 

Now  iu  the  mine,  with  a 
The  widow  dead  at  her  dailj 

With  none  to  Me  I  lit 


1850-60.] 


METTA   V.   VICTOR. 


623 


Seggars  that  in  odd  corners  lurk — 
And  slender  maidens  with  faces  wild : 

Young  men,  whose  dreams  of  greatness 
burst 
Their  garret  wails  with  their  narrow 
scope, 
Who  drowned  their  hunger  and  cold  and 
thirst 
lu    the   brimming   wine  of  a   thrilling 
hope — 
All  had  a  place  in  this  picture  strange : — 
I  shuddered,  yet  could  not  choose  but 
look, 
While  ever  and  ever  the  picture  changed 
Like   turning  the   leaves  of  a  solemn 
book. 

Vast  shadows  over  the  landscape  crept, 

BlendiDg  the  country  and  town  in  one ; 
Shapeless  dread  in  the  darkness  slept — 

Even  the  sky  was  dull  and  dun, 
Save  that  a  pencil  of  silver  light 

Slid  through  the  heavy  and  choking  air, 
Suddenly  touching  with  beauty  bright 

Some  pale  face  lifted  in  patient  prayer. 

The  darkness  drifted  like  wind  and  rain — 

I  seemed  to  listen  as  well  as  look, 
While  gusts  went  by  that  were  loud  with 
[)ain, 

And  the  air  with  sobs  of  sorrow  shook 
To  a  strange,  continuous  undertone 

Of  tears  that  were  falling  many  and 
fast : — 
Ah,  the  wind  that  over  the  sea  doth  moan 

Had  never  so  wild  a  sound  as  this  last ! 

Ever  through  space  the  picture  grew. 
Bearing    me    on    with    its    thronging 
train  ; — 
This  tempest  of  human  sorrow  blew 

And  beat  on  the  world  its  drenching  rain. 
"What  painter  hath  done  this  work?"  I 
cried — 
**  Hath  painted  this   picture   wild  and 
dim?" 


" Selfishness  wrought  it!"  a  voice  replied, 
"  For  a  prize  of  Grold  that  was  offered 
him." 

I  said : — "  Oh  let  the  vision  pass  I" 

The  scene,  like  mist,  was  drifted  away  I 
A  light  wind  ran   through   the  rippling 
grass, 

A  golden  glow  on  the  world  did  lay ; 
The  dimpled  foot  of  the  happy  child 

On  moss  and  velvet  violets  trod ; 
With  the  joy  of  flowers  the  fields  were 
wild. 

And  peifumes  rose  from  the  grateful  sod. 

The  mother's  breast  was  full  and  fair. 

She  laughed  as  she  nursed  her  rosy  boy, 
And  shook  the  curls  of  her  careless  hair 

To  vex  him  with  a  gay  annoy : 
The  girl  her  simple  labor  sped. 

Mocking    with    songs    the    birds  and 
streams, — 
Then  rested  'neath  the  rose-vine  red, 

Her  cheeks  flushed  crimson  with  her 
dreams; 

The  laborer  feasted  at  his  ease 

On  the  rich  fruits  his  toil  had  won  ; — 
The  peach  and  purple  grape  were  his — 

The  wheat  gold-tinted  by  the  sun : 
The  young  man  with  a  step  elate. 

Walked  proudly  on  th'  admiring  Earth, 
His  ideas  grown  to  actions  great — 

Success  commensurate  with  his  worth: 

The  splendor  of  the  boundless  sky 

Was  of  so  soft  and  fine  a  hue. 
No  daintiest  critic-taste  could  cry 

"There  was  too  much  of  gold  or  blue!" 
"  Who  painted  this,"  I  said,  "  must  be 

Of  Art,  the  master  and  the  lord : " 
"Love  wrought  it!"  some  one  answered 
me, 

"  And  Beauty  was  his  sole  reward." 

"  But  when  shall  Love,  the  Artist,  stand 
Most  honored  in  the  world's  esteiem. 


324 


METTA    V.    VICTOR. 


[UB» 


Aim  I  thi'ife  swtfet  vision.^  from  his  hand 
Hi'  iiHtrv  than  a  tl<flightful  dream?" 

I  :i£ik**d ;  and  still  the  vuioe  n^plies — 
-  When  Beautv  is  of  higher  worth 

Thxiii  Gold,  in  men's  far-seeing  eyes, 
Then  Love  shall  paint  for  all  the  Eartli." 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE. 

PART  nil8T. 

It  covers  the  ancient  castle 

Over  all  its  southern  wall ; 
It  makes  for  itiielf  a  trestle 

Of  arch  and  hattlement  tall ; 
It  waves  from  the  lofty  turret — 

It  swings  from  the  stately  tower^ 
It  curtains  the  grim  old  castle 

As  fair  as  a  lady's  bower. 
At  the  time  of  the  midnight  wassail, 

At  the  time  of  mirth  and  wine, 
I  seek  no  other  pleasure 

Than  to  look  on  the  royal  vine — 
It  brims  my  soul  with  the  measure 

Of  a  happiness  divine. 

I  sit  without,  in  the  meadow ; 

The  trees  sing  low  and  sweet, 
The  tremulous  light  and  shadow 

Play  all  around  my  feet ; 
I  am  full  of  summer  fancies, 

I  breatlie  the  breath  of  flowers, 
I  set?  the  river  that  glances 

Beneath  the  castle-towers ; 
I  hear  the  wild-bee's  story, 

I  >.ee  the  roses  twine — 
Hut  the  crown  of  all,  and  the  glory, 

Is  the  I loney suckle- vine ! 


♦'I' 


ri-  the  tyjM*  and  id<'al  of  summer, 

Tnipinil,  brilliant,  senile! 
It  >lH-Lers  the  liglit-winged  coiner 
III  a  f'ool  and  wavy  scn'cn ; 


It  is  full  of  vague,  wtii 

Sweeter  than  sweeCot 
Tluin  insects'  munnuroot 

Finer  than  fairj-bell 
It  is  the  queea  and  tlie  wi 

Of  all  the  vines  that 
And  the  stately  elma  ttaiid 

Surprised  to  see  it  lOw 
It  floats  in  the  yelloii 

It  swims  in  the  itwy  light — 
It  dreams  in  the  meUo' 

Through  all  the  August 
It  is  still  when  the  breece  it 

It  moves  not  leaf  nor  limh 
And  oh,  what  a  wild. 

It  holds  along  with  him ! 
They  dance  together  proodlf 

A  gay,  ethereal  dance. 
And  the  happy  breese 

As  its  gannents  rustle 


I  cannot  tell  the  fimi 

Which  crowd  my  brain  at 
Nor  the  sofl,  delidoua 

Beguiling  my  thought  to 
If  I  love  the  IloneysncUey 

I  have  rivals  manj 
The  bee  his  belt  doth 

And  sharpen  his 
He  will  sting  me  if  I  go 

He  will  swear  he 
Tluit  nectar  never 

Than  the  honey-dew  ht 


The  humming-bird,  he  wil 

He  has  lain  in  her  brsart  ftr 
The  butterfly  seeks  to  repd  MB 

With  his  wings  like  Kri^g 
And  the  bright  sun  doth 

He  is  my  rival  braTe; 
He  l)ows  his  torch  befoiv 

Like  some  gaj-eppairiad 
He  lights  the  millioii 

Which  bum  upon 
He  dries  the  morning 

Which  wiU  not  let 


METTA    V.   VICTOR. 


525 


use  to  heaven  slie  renders 
golden  lamps  all  trimmed ; 
laze  with  crimson  splendors, 
ven  the  day  undimmed. 

ire  not  tapers,  clearly 
bum  upon  the  vine- 
em  now  more  nearly 
eakers  full  of  wine ! 
re  goblets,  rich  and  golden, 
^  and  garaet-rimmed, 
its  branches  holden 
with  royal  nectar  brimmed, 
led  with  juices  amber, 
;h  ripen  in  the  flower, 
ich  bright  insects  clamber 
le  turret  and  the  tower. 
Id-bee  swims  in  blisses, 
small  bird  drinks  his  All- 
ow and  sigh — "Oh,  this  is 
iraught  the  gods  distill! 
istill  it  out  of  heaven 
these  goblets  fine — 
[Irink  from  morn  till  even — 
IS  madden  us  with  wine, 
ambrosial,  the  divine!*' 


PART   SECOXD. 

•s  the  ancient  castle 
all  its  southern  wall ; 
!S  for  itself  a  trestle 
rch  and  battlement  tall ; 
)ted  deep  with  the  basement, 
es  high  with  the  tower, 
ins  a  certain  casement — 
there  is  my  lady's  bower ! 
graceful,  sweeping  motion 
e  parteth  the  leafy  screen — 
avy  and  munnurous  ocean 
a  pearl  is  my  lady  seen, 
ider  the  vine  drops  amber 
•h  the  honey-bees  love  to  hive ! 
planted  to  shade  tlie  chamber 
le  fairest  creature  alive 


Its  holy  and  blissful  duty — 

The  sweetest  that  ever  was  done — 
Is  to  shadow  her  virgin  beauty 

From  the  eye  of  the  amorous  sun. 

I  know  why  the  birds  crowd  thither 

To  sing  and  exult  all  day, 
While  the  roses  and  violets  wither, 

Unsung,  in  the  gardens,  away. 
I  know  why  the  bees  are  drunken — 

In  pleasure  lapped  and  rolled, — 
Why   the   humming-birds'  breasts   are 
sunken 

So  deep  in  those  cups  of  gold  I 
It's  not  that  they  hold  their  wassail 

In  the  crimson,  nectarine  flower— 
They  see  the  pearl  of  the  castle, 

They  peer  in  her  maiden  bower ! 
Oh,  toss  your  flowers  in  the  sunlight ! 

Distill  your  honey-wine ! 
Wave,  wave  your  limbs  in  the  moon- 
light. 

Glorious,  aspiring  vine ! 
Yours  is  the  coveted  pleasure 

Of  guarding  the  costly  shrine — 
But  the  bitter,  bitter  measure 

Of  idle  envy  is  mine. 

I  lie  in  the  oak-tree  shadow 

The  drowsy,  sunmier  day, 
In  the  rippling  grass  of  the  meadow 

I  idle  my  time  away. 
The  wine  and  feast  are  untasted, 

The  labor  never  is  done — 
With  heart  and  body  wasted, 

I  lie  in  the  shade  and  sun. 
Like  a  bird  in  its  leafy  covering. 

She  flits  about  her  room ; 
I  see  her  fair  form  hovering 

Between  the  light  and  gloom : 
She  comes  to  the  window,  singing. 

She  plucks  a  peeping  flower — 
Through  all  my  being  is  ringing 

Her  song's  unconscious  power. 
She  shakes  the  saucy  butterfly 

From  off"  the  fragrant  bough — 


526 


MKTTA    V.   VICTOR. 


[1 


And  I  am  conquered  utterly, 

hy  the  mirth  which  dimples  now 
Ilcr  rosy  mouth  and  cheek, 

And  brig^hteiis  over  her  brow. 
Oh,  would  I  duivd  to  speak  ! 

Oh,  would  I  were  the  blossom 
That  waves  so  near  her  hair — 

She  mi<;ht  pluck  me  for  her  bosom 
And  h^t  me  peris^h  there ! 

1  am  mad  with  too  much  lon;rin^ — 

And  wild  with  too  much  thou<;ht ! 
Ble>s*d  binls,  around  her  thronging. 

Sing  on,  I  heed  you  not ! 
Oh,  why  was  I  bom  human. 

With  a  man's  spirit  and  mind. 
And  she.  a  peerless  woman, 

The  queen  of  all  her  kind  ? 
Those  woody  fibers  feel  not 

The  thrill  of  nerves  on  fire — 
Those  veins  of  nectar  reel  not 

With  love,  hope,  or  desire ! 
Yet  I  can  see  them  yearning 

To  hear  her  ojireless  speech, 
And  I  ciui  see  them  turning 

Her  loveliest  cheeks  to  reach! 
Oh,  twine  thou  over  the  castle!- 

In  wreaths  and  masses  twine ! 
I  am  only  a  stupid  vassal 

To  lie  in  the  grass  and  pine 

And  wish  my  fate  were  thine, 

Thou  happy,  royal  Vine ! 


Ben  Selim  had  a  golden  coin  that  day. 
Which  to  a  stnuiger,  asking  alas  I 
gave, 
Who  went,  rejoirhig,  on  hk  nnknowa  «b; 
Ben  Selim  died,  too  poor  to  ovn  a  pav* 
But  when  his  soul  reacbed  heaven,  m^ 
with  pride, 
Showed  him  the  wenllh  to  vhkh  k 
coin  had  multiplied. 


UOVEJ 


COMroUND  INTEREST. 

Br.N  Adam  had  a  fr«»lden  coin  one  dav, 
Wliirh   he   put   out   at   iiitcn^st  with  a 

Y«  Ml-  :i!"i«  r  \rn\\  await in;r  him,  it  lay, 

I  liili  I  III'  (Kiul)lid  roin  l\v«»  pirrrs  jrrew,! 
Ainl   i\i'-^v   l\\«),   lour — >o  on,   till   |M*upU? 

**  llnw  rii'li  l>rn  Adam  L*!"  and  boweil 
th«-  MTvile  head. 


Love  is  not  taught.  Queen 
Mysterious  as  life,  and 
The  congrifgated  gloriea  of 
With  all  its  jeweled  Inmpa 

roof. 
Could  never  porcluue  one  of  ila 
Jjove,  in  excliange,  tak 
Power  cannot  claim  i 

mand : — 
It  is  a  tribute  Queens 
The  humblest  peasant  aingiag 
Is  oilen  richer  than  tlie 
It  is  the  giil  God  left  the 
To  keep  them  from  deapwov  v! 

shame. 
Pain,  |K)verty  and  death. 
Among  the  |)eople.     When  a 
Look  in  eacli  othei^« 

love!" 
The  common  earth  gitnra  to  n 

world. 
Singing  of  binb,  Bhining  of 


Oo^Vis^l 


Bl(M)ming  of  ilowen  and 

motm 
Have  a  new  charm  to  their 
Th<'v  hi-ar  the  mus^ic  of  the 
Walk  in;:,  with  light  feet,  to  the 
CanliH^  of  care  and  disbeKevi^ 
(iratrfui  for  life — and  all, 

love ! 


*if 


COATES  KINNEY. 


CoATEs  KiNNET  wos  boni  00  the  west  bank  of  Crooked  Lake — Keeuka  in  Indian — 
not  far  from  Penn  Yan,  in  Yates  county,  New  York,  November  twenty-fourth,  1826. 
Without  any  aid  from  his  parents,  their  gifted  son  has  obtained  a  liberal  education  by 
his  own  exertions.  Like  most  young  men  of  talent  in  the  West,  Coates  Kinney  has 
stood  ready  for  any  thing  that  might  turn  up.  Accordingly,  he  has  taught  both  in 
the  common  and  high  schools,  edited  papers,  and  practiced  Jpw,  which  is  now  his  pro- 
fession. 

In  the  spring  of  1840  he  came  to  Springboro,  Warren  county,  Ohio,  where  he  spent 
the  most  of  his  later  boyhood.  He  was  married  on  the  seventeenth  of  July,  1851, 
to  Hanna  Kelley  of  Waynesville,  of  the  same  county.  The  issue  of  their  marriage 
was  three  children,  two  of  which  arc  deceased — ^the  other  is  a  motherless  infant, 
Mrs.  Kinney  having  died  on  the  twenty-seventh  day  of  April,  1860 — a  few  days  after 
its  birth — deeply  lamented  by  a  large  circle  of  devoted  friends. 

Coates  Kinney  is  now  thirty-three  years  of  age,  and  the  commencement  of  his  lit- 
erary career  dates  back  about  ten  years.  Having  been  compelled  to  make  his  bread 
in  uncongenial  pursuits,  his  genius  has  been  much  encumbered.  But  iron  necessity 
is  often  the  most  profitable  disciplinarian,  and  its  rugged  requisitions  have  made  the 
mightiest  of  earth's  heroes. 

His  poems  consist  of  *^  Keeuka,  an  American  Legend,"  and  eighteen  minor  pieces, 
published  in  a  volume  of  one  hundred  and  sixty-one  pages,  in  1854,  and  a  number  of 
productions  since  given  to  the  serial  press.  In  estimating  his  merits  as  a  poet,  we 
shall  not  attempt  to  define  or  analyze  the  elements  of  poetry,  nor  undertake  a  theory 
which  will  especially  adapt  itself  to  his  case.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  poetry,  like  elo- 
quence, finds  a  response  in  the  human  soul, — ^an  echo  in  the  popular  heart  This  is 
the  only  unmistakable  test  of  genuine  merit  in  this  field  of  literature.  It  will  not  do 
to  institute  a  comparison  between  the  modem  and  ancient  sons  of  song,  because  two 
thousand  years  of  change  and  progress,  in  human  nature,  have  produced  as  marked 
effects  in  poetic  genius  as  in  any  thing  else.  Another  Iliad  can  never  be  produced, 
because  the  Homeric  age  can  never  recur.  The  generations  now  are  developed  after 
a  model  so  different,  that  the  demand  for  epics  has  ceased,  and  therefore  no  supply 
can  be  expected.  The  case  is  well  stated  by  Neibuhr,  the  great  German  philosophi- 
cal historian,  in  the  following  language:  "To  rise  in  conciseness  and  vigor  of  style,  is 
the  hiirhost  that  we  modems  can  attain ;  for  we  cannot  write  fix)m  our  whole  soul ; 
and  lienro  we  cannot  expect  another  great  epic  poem.  The  quicker  beats  the  life 
pulse  of  the  world,  the  more  one  is  compelled  to  move  in  epicycles,  the  less  can  calm, 
mighty  repose  of  the  spirit  be  ours." 

How  far,  then,  does  Mr.  Kinney  meet  this  standard  of  excellence,  '^  conciseness  and 

(627) 


,V:K  COATKS   KINNEY.  [1 


vigor  of  style?"  Without  instituting^  an  invidious  comparison  with  other  pori^  V4 
ask  the  reudor  to  fonn  his  own  opinion  as  well  from  the  entire  pnMloctkmft  whick  wM 
be  given,  as  from  the  i»ussag(.*s  of  *'  Keeuka,  an  American  Legend,** 
which  are  selected  with  s|)ec'ial  refon*nce  to  this  quality. 

Of  this  leading  po<'m,  ^  Keeuka,"  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  throughout  tene  and 
full  of  thought  and  genuine  poetry.     It  lias  been  criticised  fur  the  lre«doai  wilA 
the.  author  makes  use  of  obsolete  words ;  but  ever}'  one  who  u  modcsivielj  raa^  vfl 
understand  them  without  difriculty.     Antiquity  itdelf  is  poetical, 
liave  oi)en  a  place  in  |>oetry  peculiarly  cliarming.     But  we  prefer  the 
guage  iLs  it  is  now  spoken  ;  though  the  more  we  study  a  strong  production  like  "! 
uka/*  the  mon^  our  pnjudice  against  the  old  wonls  it  contain.*i  giveas  wajr* 

For  other  illustrations  of  the  quality  of  ^conciseness  and  vigor,**  see  **Ob!  Bi^ 
On !  '*  and  ^Mother  of  (jrlory.**     The  latter  is  one  of  the  \H:»i  8pecimeofl  of  biaak 
in  the  English  language.     It  is  beautiful  as  a  p0(*m,  and  noble  tor  the 
A  second  indication  of  |)oetic  excellence  is  the  judgment  of  the  high  tout  of 
ity.     The  writer  whose  pieces  have  been  most  extensively  puhliahod  by  Ifc 
press,  luis  the  most  favonible  res|X)nse  in  this  behalf.     Of  Mr.  Kiniiej*a 
''llain  on  the  Roof,"  *' Heroes  of  the  Pen/' ''  Emma  Stuart***  "*  Minnehahat*" 
End  of  the  Rainbow/'  are  known  to  almost  every  intelligent  reader  in  the 

Of  the  {>oem,  ^Rain  on  the  lioof,"  it  may  be  said,  tliat  its  popularity 
that  of  any  other  poem  ever  written  in  the  West     Though  artistioallj 
to  those  who  have  the  innate  love  of  poetry,  it  seents  not  to  have  I 
but  to  have  come  of  itself,  like  a  shower  in  April,  or  to  liave  grown  wild, 
sums  in  tln^  woods.     It,  like  all  oi'  Mr.  Kinney's  productions,  will  i 
prove  on  actiuatntance. 

A  thinl  rule  by  which  to  estimate  a  poet's  merits,  is  the  Hopplj  of  hrief 
calculated  to  enforce  a  truth,  or  impress  a  noble  sentiment,  that  he 
common  s]K'ech  of  the  |K>opIe.     This  compliment  is  not  ut\en  paid 
lifetinie.     Perliaps  Po|m''s  ** Essay  on  Man"  furnishes  more  single  lines, 
(}u:uirupl<'ts  ixinv  eying  solid  idea^  than  any  other  |»oem  e^-er  writteUy 
allowance  for  its  length.     Shakspeare  has  thrown  much  noble  speech  into  thai 
mouth.     Mr.  Kinney  is  yet  young,  and  his  works  limited;  but  he  hasfiur 
future  lame  in  this  n'>p«*<-t. 

A  fourth  test  of  portiml  excellence  is  that  richness  of  fimcy  and  u 
throws  ovrr  the  rrahties  of  existen(rt%  the  tniths  and  (^motions  of  oar  being,  tke 
tiful  «rarnitun^  of  nature,  the  glorious  nidiance  of  the  divine.     For  exaaplas  if 
extvllrnce   in   .Mr.  Kinney's  ver>«*,  let  the  reader  observe  **  Extracts  frun 
-The  Ktlenof  Wishes"  an<l  -  MulM-lle." 

rrfvinii'^ly  to  our  eentiiry,  ]HM-try  h:is  employed  itself  chiefly  in  embelliifaiag  Ail 
linl  Kill  (I  dt'  the  pa^t,  and  in  )M)rtraying  the  ** human  nature**  of  the 


r _ 

now  aipj  l)<rcartei\  not  wliat  man  has  lH*en  or  is.  hut  what  he  will  be  in  the  laftUM 
of  lii-^  p'Tii  eiinii^  u\\i<\  eliittiv  in<ja;:e  the  Ivn*,  and  the  luirmoniet  of  natne  nirf  . 

pn»;:r»*-i  nni>t  iiml  who  in  the  nieloily  of  vers*!. 


1850-60.] 


COATES    KINNEY. 


629 


Does  our  poet  meet  this  fiflh  test  of  poetic  excellence  ?  In  addition  to  citations 
already  made,  which  illustrate  this  point,  there  are  several  entire  pieces,  to  which  we 
may  call  the  reader's  attention. 

In  conclusion  let  it  be  remarked  that,  a  sixth  test  of  excellence  consists  in  the  depth 
of  thought  that  lies  at  the  basis  of  a  poet's  performances.  It  is  not  the  quantity  but 
the  quality  of  his  productions  on  which  merit  must  repose.  The  reader  will  notice 
that  his  appreciation  and  admiration  of  "  Keeuka,"  "  Motlier  of  Glory,"  and  many 
others  of  Mr.  Kinney's  productions,  will  depend  upon  the  study  he  gives  them. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "KEEUKA." 

Were  mine  the  language  Sappho  wont  to 

sing, 
Whose  tones  were  brooks  of  honey  in  the 

soul; 
Could  I  the  full  Hellenic  thunders  fling 
Down  from  sublime  thought's  empyrean 

pole. 
With  Argive  auditors  to  hear  them  roll. 
Then  might  I  not  in  vain  invoke  the  Muse, 
Whose  mythic  spells  of  inspiration  stole 
Upon  old  bards,  and  filled  their  hearts,  as 

dews 
Mysterious  fill  the  buds,  with  glory's  folded 

hues. 

But  most  the  power  I  lack ;    for  Saxon 

speech, 
Though   rough   as   ragged  ocean,  yet  is 

grand 
As  the  great  sound  of  billows  on  the  beach, 
That  winds  in  wrath  scourge  bellowing  to 

land. 
Yet,  though  the  Muse  ne  beck  me  with  her 

hand 
Up  where  Parnassian  rills  of  passion  flow. 
Where    fancy's    rainbows    brilliantly  are 

spanned 
Above  thought's  purest,  most  ethereal  snow, 
Nathless  I  meekly  sing  this  museless  lay 

below. 

[Caitto  I.— Stanas  i.,  U. 


The  voices  with  the  distance,  tapered  down 
To  silence ;  and  thence  till  the  setting  sun 
The  plumy  thrapple  of  the  mockbird  brown, 
Swoln  full  of  rich,  round  warble,  glibly 

spun 
Its  tangled  string  of  carols,  never  done : 
The  tunable  love-twitter  round  the  nests. 
The  susurration  of  the  bees,  the  run 
Of  quick  brooks,  blent  their  sweet  sounds, 

till  the  west's 
Vanguard  of  hosting  stars  displayed  their 

brilliant  crests. 

[Cakto  I.- 


Oh  War !  iconoclast  of  woman's  love  ! 
Thou  breaker  of  the  idols  of  her  heart! 
Thou  pomp  of  murder,  that  dost  flout  above 
All  penahy !  that  sit'st  enthroned  apart 
From   vulgar  crimes,   and  crowned   with 

glory  art ! 
While  man  may  so  heroically  die 
That   his   great   name  on   time's  historic 

cliart 
Shall  loom  through  ages,  woman's  is  the 

sigh— 
The  tear,  which  fame's  cold  breath  may 

freeze,  but  cannot  dry. 

[Oahto  it.— Btenm  U. 

The  woods'  wide  amphitheater  of  green ; 
The  sky's  high  overcanopy  of  blue ; 
The  lake,  arena  for  the  coming  scene 
Of  love's  boat  floating  with  its  dual  crew ; 


34 


»  ATES    KINNEV. 


U^ 


And  all  lienfaHer  in  their  rapcaml  r 
And  all  liif;h  knowledge  and  all 
(tion  knew. 


*    Kjk^li. 


•  -uxilt,  and  sing- 


.  .^-.;pip*,  ono  mijrht 


li^.-iiiahV;    aira    that  .  .  .  •  Hi"    «)ul    seemed 

tlioii;:lits  beaked  wiih  fire, 
llatciiin;;  tlicm  into  word^     Upon  hi* 
Ttiero  ^flowed   the   light  of  tmtk'*  c 

d«.'?ire. 


■^  ipinia  :  all  did  seem 
t     I'liit.'  ot    ]Kl^sion*s  para- 


..^11   :lio  «:loiy  of  that  mellow 


•  •  • 


.  Ne*(.*r  liarpi:^t  harping  viik  hit  j 
en  haq> 


'     '  *  j  The  C)rphio  miracles  of 

...  u  :ac  strvams,  wc  stroamed  adown  ,,     • ,  i    ir    .       « 

'  Could  half  sms  k>v< 


.•iiui  :au{>  the  piny  hills  to^'ther; 
vi-i  wc  uiijrht  of  danjrtT  we  wrre  in, 
..  iiiicr  one  was  ware  of  luiy  sin : 
•  \UKd  our  foreheads  oVr  llie  tielfsame 

lHA)k, 


.  ...  In  noisy  floclu  while  other  dhii 

played. 
Nurse  Nature  spread  her  lap  lai  M 

me, 


.ind  so  before  me  her  delightawaKi  ki 

V.oM^   which  pome   immortal  mind  had  That  I  was  chiinned  to  ail  «pan  kr  h 

And  feel  my   heart  with  her  gvtal  k 


iKTOn, 


Viiil,  mingling  with  our  miiij^led  npirits, 

took 

li>  [H.>wer  in,  ud  this  hUcc  l>o9oms  yondi'r 

brook. 

[Canto  III.— Stena  zxIt. 


Yi'ars  passed  like  dirains — for  we  wore  not 

a  part 
Of    the    wt>rKr3    wakeful    stir— nlivinest 

dn*ams, 
Of  jH>«'try,  philosophy,  and  art, 
And  lihrrty,  and  glory,  and  all  themes 
Of   th«i!i;rht;  the  ^lars,  tlio>e  everkistinp 


agree. 

.  .  .  .  And  at  such  timea  the  ■■>  1 

earnest  looks 
Of  sym])athy,  as  though  each  heU  ■  ■ 
And  in  thtf  Mlvery  babble  of  the 
Almu?t  a  huniun  sobbing 


.  ...  So  pa5sed  we  aU  the  hifcif 

evrs. 
Our  souls  commingling  like  twi 
Within  some  pleasant  Talleyfall 


.  ,^  ,  .    ,  ....     ..        ,|        ,         ....  Men  on  whose  fiOiitaKiBfTaih 

Ot  (ukI  in  h»*aY«^n  ;  hl«',  this  nulh-ss  chase  rut  ^ 

,    .    i..,i      11-  1  1      I      i-u  full  embrowned 

Ot  cIhI'IIkhmI  altir  ranibows;  di'ath,  which,—,  ^,  _.,. 

.The  stamp  ot  tme  nobihtTt 

„,,     ....        ...         .,  ,.        ,,     ,      ♦  r  ^«     N«vrr  m  heraldn-,  but  eleTaled 

Mil*  Ii:iin«'ol  tli»»  vaillroin  Mv.-tJTVs  face;'     ,  ,  .    •/       ^.    „   . 

,,.,..  * ,      '      ,         Above  the  m;ije.<lies  of  all  the  c 

Aif'l  innnortality  in  .-•inii-  inun'  MMpi)y  plare. 

-    -  .  .  .  .  O  Liberty !  thj  ffjmbol 

.  .  .  .  ]li<   hair   l)ri;;Iit    brown,  his   eyes  The  jm* at  sea  is  thy  STmhol, 
wrrc  laki'Iikc  hliii>,  Which  roll  before  the  i 

And  liMtkcd  its  though  they  held  all  here-  thee: 

toton;  Thou  hast  a  moCioa  like 


860-60.] 


COATES   KINNEY. 


681 


RAIN  ON  THE  ROOF. 

When  the  humid  shadows  hover 

Over  all  the  starry  spheres, 
And  the  melancholy  darkness 

Gently  weeps  in  rainy  tears, 
What  a  joy  to  presa  the  pillow 

Of  a  cottage-chamher  bed, 
And  to  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  soft  rain  overhead  I 

Every  tinkle  on  the  shingles 

Has  an  echo  in  the  heart ; 
And  a  thousand  dreamy  fancies 

Into  busy  being  start. 
And  a  thousand  recollections 

Weave  their  bright  hues  into  woof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  rain  upon  the  roof. 

Now  in  fancy  comes  my  mother, 

As  she  used  to,  years  agone, 
To  survey  her  darling  dreamers, 

Ere  she  left  them  till  the  dawn ; 
O!  I  see  her  bending  o'er  me. 

As  I  list  to  this  refrain 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

Then  my  little  seraph  sister, 

With  her  wings  and  waving  hair. 
And  her  bright-eyed  cherub  brother — 

A  serene,  angelic  pair ! — 
Glide  around  my  wakeful  pillow, 

With  their  praise  or  mild  reproof. 
As  I  listen  to  the  murmur 

Of  the  soft  rain  on  the  roof. 

And  another  comes  to  thrill  me 

With  her  eye's  delicious  blue ; 
And  forget  I,  gazing  on  her. 

That  her  heart  was  all  untrue : 
I  remember  but  to  love  her 

With  a  rapture  kin  to  pain. 
And  my  heart's  quick  pulses  vibrate 

To  the  patter  of  the  rain. 


There  is  naught  in  Art's  bravuraSy 

That  can  work  with  such  a  spell 
In  the  spirit's  pure,  deep  fountains. 

Whence  the  holy  passions  well. 
As  that  melody  of  Nature, 

That  subdued,  subduing  strain 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 


THE  HEROES  OF  THE  PEN.* 

In  the  old  time  gone,  ere  came  the  dawn 

To  the  ages  dark  and  dim, 
Who  wielded  the  sword  with  mightiest 
brawn. 

The  world  bowed  down  to  him ; 
The  hand  most  red  with  the  slaughtered 
dead, 

Mast  potent  waved  command, 
And  Mars  from  the  sky  of  glory  shed 

His  light  like  a  blazing  brand : 
But  fiery  Mars  among  the  stars 

Grew  pale  and  paler  when, 
At  the  mom,  came  Venus  ushering  in 

The  Heroes  of  the  Pen. 

Not  with  sword  and  fiame  these  heroes 
came 

To  ravage  and  to  slay, 
But    the    savage    soul    with    thought  to 
tame. 

And  with  love  and  reason  sway ; 
Nor  good  steel  wrought  that  battles  fought. 

In  the  centuries  of  yore. 
Was  ever  so  bright  as  they  burnished 
thought. 

To  cut  into  error's  core ; 
And  in  the  fight  for  truth  and  right, 

Not  a  hundred  thousand  men 
Of  the  heroes  old  were  match  for  one 

Of  the  Heroes  of  the  Pen. 


*  Written  for,  aad  iwd  to,  th«  Ohio  Sdltorial  Goutwi- 
tUm  held  at  Ciadimati  January  lOth,  18M. 


532 


GOATES   KINNEY. 


[IM 


For  the  weapon  iliey  wield,  nor  armor  nor 
shield 

Endures  for  a  single  dint, 
Nor  glare  withstands,  nor  bajonet  steeled, 

Nor  powder^  and  ball,  and  flint: 
It    touches    the    thing    called    slave    or 
king, 

And  the  man  doth  reappear, 
As  did  from  the  toud  tlie  serupli  spring 

At  the  toucli  of  Itliuriel's  spear ; 
And  wherever  down  it  strikes  a  crown. 

Says  sovereign  to  serf.  Amen !  — 
Amen !  and  hurra,  the  people  cry, 

For  the  Heroes  of  the  Pen ! 

Ui)on  old  tomes,  tliose  mtacombs 

Of  the  dead  and  huri<Ki  time. 
They  lay  tlie  ]m>e  of  glory's  domes, 

And  build  with  truth  sublime; 
And     from    their    height    directing    the 
fight 

Of  the  right  agninst  the  wrong, 
Th<»y  fill  the  world  with  the  lettered  might 

Of  eloquenc<»  and  song. 
Nor  buried  they  lie  with  those  who  die 

At  threescore  years  an<l  ten, 
But    atop  the  piles    they  have  builded, 
sleep 

The  Heroes  of  the  Pen. 

Hurra  for  the  true!  of  old  or  new, 

Who  herues  livrnl  or  f<»ll — 
Tliermopyla»*s  imniort:il  few ! 

Hurra  for  the  Swiizer  Trll  I 
Upvoice  to  sky  tin*  !»nive  (Jnirrlii ! 

Hurra  for  the  Pole  and  the  Hun! 
For  the  men  who  made  the  CTcat  July! 

Hurni  for  '\Vashin;:ton ! 
Yet  old  time  i»n>t  would  triumph  at  last — 

Hut  hurra,  and  hurni  a;rain, 
For  the  heroes  who  triumph  over  time! 

The  Heroes  of  the  Pen. 


MOTHER  OF  GLOET. 


We  weary  wmiting  for 

Tliat  struggle  ungljr  throa§^  the 

rifU' 
Of  &<piration,  winking  os  with 
Oh,  for  some  breezj 
To   take  the  cloud   off  fivin 

thoughts, 
And  let  their  glory  oonsteUaie  the 
Alas!  the  mind's  pure  gold  lirs 
Deep  in  the  silt  of  maddjr 
And  he  moila  long,  who 
To  coin  himself  the  oostlj  priee  cf 
Under  this  deluging  degenenKj, 
The  spirit's  brightest  oatgnnrtht  i 

pain, 
As  precious  ]>earlfi  are  of 
At  bottom  of  tlie  main.    The 
The  diver  dives :  rich 

pearb 
Put  such  a  splendor  on  their  ng||f 
As  dazzles  out  the  memory  of 
And  thenceforth  biaxoos 
From  on  high. 


Thus  is  won  renown. 
Still  priK-ess  of  the  rain. 
The  great  sweat  of  the 
In  the  consummate  spectacle 
A  sevcn-hued  arch   apon   the 

heaven : 
So  ni'vcr  sees  the  world  those 
8tn>ng  effort  and  long 

stim'd 
In  low  obscurity,  and  alowlj 
Its  darkness  up,  till  sodden 
Fonh  from  it,  arching 

iHiW. 


Think  ye  the  lofljr 

world, 
That  iH'am   like  full 

night  of  time. 
Holding  their  oaha,  h^ 
Forever  at  the  top  of 


rfii 


1860-60.] 


COATBS   KINNEY. 


633 


Think  je  thej  rushed  up  with  a  sudden- 
ness 
Of  rockets  sportively  shot  into  heaven, 
And  flared  to  their  immortal  places  there  ? 

The  vulgar  years  through  which  ambi- 
tion gropes, 
Reaching  and  feeling  for  his  destiny, 
Are  only  years  of  chaos,  tallied  not 
On  the  eternal  rocks,  but  covered  deep 
Below  the  stratified  history  of  a  world. 

Celebrity  by  some  great  accident, 
Some  single  opportunity,  is  like 
Aladdin's  palace  in  the  wizard  tale. 
Vanished  when   envy  steals   the    charm 

away. 
But  Thought  up-pyramids  itself  to  fame 
By  husbandry  of  opportunities, 
Grade  after  grade  constructing  to  that  height, 
Which,  seen  above  the  far  horizon,  seems 
To  peak  among  the  stars.     Go  mummify 
Thy  name  within  that  architectural  pile 
"Which  others*  intellect  has  builded;  none — 
For  all  the  hieroglyphs  of  glory — none 
Save  but  the  builder's  name,  shall  sound 

along 
The  everlasting  ages.     Heart  and  brain 
Of  thine  must  resolutely  yoke  themselves 
To  slow-paced  years  of  toil,  else  all  the 

trumps 
Of  hero-heraldry  that  ever  twanged, 
Gathered   in   one   mad  blare   above    the 

graves, 
Shall  not  avail  to  resurrect  thy  name 
To  the  salvation  of  remembrance  then 
When  once  the  letters  of  it  have  slunk 

back 
Into  the  alphabet  from  off  thy  tomb. 
Aye,  thou  must  think,  think  !    Marble  frets 

and  crumbles 
Back  into  undistinguishable  dust 
At  last,  and  epitaphs  grooved  into  brass. 
Yield  piccomcal  to  the  hungry  elements ; 
But  truths  that  drop  plumb  to  the  depths  of 

time. 


Anchor    the  name  forever: — thou    must 

think 
Such  truths,  and  speak,  or  write,  or  act 

them  forth — 
Thyself  must  do  this— or  the  centuries 
Shall  take  thee,  as  the  mselstrom  gulps  a 

wreck. 
To  the  dread  bottom  of  oblivion. 

Think! 

A    bibulous    memory    sponging    up    the 

thoughts 

Of  dead  men,  is  not  thought ;  it  holds  no 
sway 

Where  genius  is :  not  freighted  argosies, 

But  thunder-throated  guns  of  battle-ships 

Command  the  high  seas.     Destiny  is  not 

About  thee,  but  within ;  thyself  must  make 

Thyself:  the  agonizing  throes  of  Thought, 

These  bring  forth  glory,  bring  forth  destiny. 


THE  EDEN  OF  WISHES. 

It  is  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain, 

Whose  high  brow  is  bared  before  Grod, 

There  gushes  a  crystalline  founts^n. 
And  makes  a  bright  brook  in  the  sod. 

And  the  sod  spreads  away  o'er  a  valley 
That  opens  where  blue  waters  be; 

And  the  brook  with  meandering  dally 
Goes  babbling  along  to  the  sea. 

There  snowy  sails  pass,  like  the  lazy 
White  clouds  of  a  summery  sky- 
Appear  and  evanish  where  hazy 
Infinity  fences  the  eye. 

Here  falls  over  Pan's  mossy  pillows 
The  green  gloom  of  tropical  groves. 

And  Poesy  hears  the  low  billows 
In  airs  that  come  up  from  the  coves. 

And  here,  while  the  sands  of  light  sunny 
Sifl  down  through  the  leaves  from  abovC) 


534 


COATES   KINNEV. 


n» 


The  wild  bee  gadd  hunting  for  lion(*y, 
With  wings  wove  of  whispers  of  love. 

Here  the  ripples  mnkc  music  more  mellow, 
More  sweet  than  the  sto{>s  of  a  flute ; 

I  lore  the  dark  sky  of  leaves  is  starred  yel- 
low 
With  thick  constelhitions  of  fruit 

This  valley  so  pleasantly  lonely, 

Where  through  doth  the  waterbrook  run, 
Holds  one  little  cotta;;;e,  one  only, 
And  one  little  maid,  only  one. 

Her  blue  eyes  are  clear  pools  of  passion, 
Her  lips  have  the  tremor  of  leaves, 

And  the  speech  tliat  her  lovely  thoughts 
fashion, 
Is  sweeter  than  poetry  weaves. 

Flirtation,  gross,  flip])ant,  and  cruel. 
Ne'er  handled  the  hues  on  the  wings 

Of  her  love ;  in  her  heart  is  a  jewel 
No  cunning  of  flattery  strings. 

For  dwells  all  alone  here  the  maiden, 
And  waits  for  a  true  lover*s  kiss : 

Who  would  sigh  for  angc>lical  Aiden, 
With  her  in  an  Eden  like  this  ? 

Tis  the  Eden  of  Wishes,  unreal. 
This  valley  by  sea  bordered  blue, 

And  the  maiden  is  all  an  ideal — 
I  was  but  romancing  to  you. 


KMMA  STL'AKT. 

On  !  the  voices  of  the  cricket*, 

Chirping  siid  along  the  lea, 
An:  the  very  tears  of  music 

Unto  melancholy  me  ; 
Ami  I  lie  katydid's  responses 

I'p  among  the  locu>t  Iravcs, 
Make  my  spirit  very  luncoome 

On  these  pensive  autumn  eves. 


For  they  mind  me,  Emma  Stan^ 

Of  the  by-gone,  blessed  time^ 
When  our  heart-beaU  paired  luylfci 

Like  sweet  syUablet  in  rbjaa; 
Ere  the  faith  of  love  was  brakca, 

And  our  locked  hands  ieB  apsr^ 
And  the  vanity  of  promise 

Lefl  a  void  in  eitiier  lieaiL 

Art  thou  happy,  Emma  Soiait? 

I  again  may  happy  be 
Nevermore  :  tlie  autumn  insecti, 

In  the  grasfly  and  on  tlie  tieei 
Crying  as  for  very  sorrow 

At  the  coming  of  tlie  fiost, 
Are  to  me  k)Te*s  fSsdlen  angeli^ 

Wailing  for  their  heaven  loiL 

Of\en,  often,  Enmia  Stuart, 

On  such  solemn  nights  as  tUi^ 
Have  we  sat  and  mased  together 

Of  the  perfectness  of 
Of  the  liopc  tliat  lit  tlie 

Of  the  future  with  its  rmy, 
Wliich  was  like  a  star  in 

Beautiful,  but  far  away ! 


By  the  gateway,  where  the 

Of  the  moonlight  made 
And  the  river  ripple  soanded 

Like  the  murmur  of  sweet  1^ 
There  a  little  maiden  waited, 

Telling  all  the  moments  o*ci^ 
Emma  Stuart!  KnunaStoart! 

Waitd  the  nuuden 


No !  ah  no !  Akmg  the  padiwajr 

(irows  the  higli,  ontraaplsd 
Wht;n;  the  cricket  stops  lo 

For  thy  wonted  feet  to 
But  tliy  footsteps. 

Press  no  more  the 
Trip  no  more  along  the 

And  the  cricket  siii^ 


It  is  very  moumfiil 

On  such  solenm  n^hls  ^  tlii^ 


•  *.-.>. 


1850-60.] 


COATES   KINNEY. 


636 


How  eTanished  all  the  promise 
Of  the  perfectness  of  bliss : 

Love's  green  grave  between  us,  Emma, 
Keeps  us  parted  aye  and  ay( 

Even  not  to  know  each  other 
In  the  Love-home  far  away  I 


MINNEHAHA. 

!Ere  the  Muses  transatlantic. 

Pale  of  face,  and  blue  of  eye, 
Found  the  wilderness  romantic 

*Neath  tlie  occidental  sky, 
Think  not  then  was  here  no  worship 

Of  the  beautiful  and  grand  ; 
Think  not  Nature  had  no  wooers 

In  the  wild  Hesperian  land. 

Poesy,  agrestic  maiden, 

Wild-eyed,  black-haired,  haunted  here, 
Singing  of  the  Indian  Aiden, 

Southwest  of  this  mortal  sphere ; 
Singing  of  the  good  Great  Spirit, 

Who  is  in  and  over  all ; 
Singing  sweetly  every  river, 

Mountain,  wood,  and  waterfalL 

And  this  dark  Parnassian  maiden, 

Sang  sublimely  war's  wild  art ; 
Sang  of  love  and  lips  love-laden 

With  the  honey  of  the  heart. 
But  the  war-song's  frantic  music, 

And  the  death-song's  roundelay, 
And  the  love-song's  rude  cantata, 

Westward,  westward  die  away. 

These  will  with  the  red  tribes  perish ; 

For  their  language  leaves  nor  scroll 
Nor  tradition  writ,  to  cherish 

Such  immortalness  of  soul. 
So,  the  names  that  they  have  given 

To  the  charms  of  Nature  here — 
Stream,  cascade,  lake,  hill,  and  valley — 

Let  us  fervently  revere. 


For,  though  civil  life  effaces 

All  else  they  have  gloried  in. 
Yet  this  poetry  of  places. 

Shall  remind  us  they  have  been : 
Therefore,  white  man,  pioneering 

Far  and  farther  in  the  west, 
Let  the  Indian  names  be  sacred, 

Though  thou  ravage  all  the  rest 

Call  not  cataracted  rapid 

That  has  leaped  its  way  and  riven, 
By  his  own  name,  curt  and  vapid. 

That  some  Saxon  boor  has  given  I 
But  let  nature  keep  her  titles  I 

Let  her  name  the  quick  cascade 
Minnehaha — Laughing- Water — 

In  the  language  she  has  made ! 

Minnehaha !  how  it  gushes 

Like  a  flow  of  laughter  out ! 
Minnehaha !  how  it  rushes 

Downward  with  a  gleeful  shout ! 
Minnehaha !  to  the  echoes — 

Minnehaha !  back  tlie  same — 
Minnehaha!  Minnehaha! 

Live  forever  that  sweet  name ! 


ONI  RIGHT  ONI 

On  !  right  on !     Art  thou  immortal^ 
Bom  to  act,  and  deeds  to  do. 

And  yet  sittest  in  the  portal 

Of  thy  destiny?    Pass  through! 

On !  right  on  !  strike— stave  to  slivers 
Error's  gates  that  bar  thy  way ; 

Enter,  and  live  with  the  livers  I 
Live  and  act,  while  yet  'tis  day. 

On !  right  on  I  for  nigbt  is  coming — 
Night  of  life,  which  comes  to  all — 

When  Death's  fingers,  chill  and  numbing. 
Seal  the  lids  and  spread  the  palL 


ATES    KINNEY. 


[IB^ 


.»  !iiifi4  V  a  bmve ; 
•  ■•o  -.uul  rattle 
...J         .!«:  irare. 

{j".  -iiiine  is  Legion, 
-    ■  -^.  iM'  i\<  ann  ; 
■    i.iiTV  a  ivgion, 
K'^i'  r^  Uike  alurm. 

.:  i    ki!  with  high  ambition, 
:  .livv    'AM  \iper,  Shindcr,  feel 
1   iii.u^  "I  Mihiniss  contrition, 
\\i'A   lis  hoiiil  beneath  thy  heel. 

'I .     <i:iic  on  !     Think  not  life  ending 
'A  tie  a  thou  liest  down  to  die  : 

'u  .  :  ii:hi  on !  bmve  soul,  ascending, 
^;u:  tbrever  in  the  sky ! 


ON  makkia(;e. 

A  niiooK  and  a  river — 
A  vrystalline  brook 
Fn)m  a  si!>vlliiH»  nook, 
And  a  silv<'i  y  riv»r — 
Flow  into  a  lako, 
111  whirli  Itcaiitiful  lake 

Are  pii'tiin'd  all  bri^lit  things  above ; 
Till*  brook  is  a  liiV, 
And  the  river  a  life ; 

And  tho  lake  is  the  I^ike  of  Love. 

And  nut  i)f  its  bosom 
A  stream  tills  and  tlow.^ 
And  tM'ianwanl  ;:tH's — 
Frnin  out  tin'  lakr's  tM)>(»m 
Olio  stn':ini  to  iIm*  swi ; 
And  tlii>  iiiHiiiK*  M-a, 

Tlia!  f'viT  mv^tiTioii'^lv  ndU 

I 'pull  tiiin\  ri;liir  >luin*, 
It  i<  iiaiiii-d  K\cnn<ir<- ; 

AipI  lb'*  -tn.iin  i- nm-  litr  of  two  souls. 


So  the  brook  and  che  rirer 

irnitedlj  run ; 
Two  lives  from  the  GWer, 

Flow  back  only  one. 
The  two  halves  of  bein^ 

The  man  and  the 
In  wedlock  agreeing^ 

Complete  the  life  hi 


When  two  lives  like  theee  from 

Into  double  being  flow — 
AVhen  two  >oiil.s  like  these 

In  their  heart*  thia  truth  shaD  glow; 
Love  is  not  the  little  liuten 

Starred  around  the  paMion-Boaa; 
Love  o*er  all  life's  hearen  dmtaii 

From  horizon  up  to 


DISCONTENT. 


A  LITTLE  bird  with  a 
Came  fluting  to  me  a  silver 
As  thou^li  it  9BAd  thro'  its  meUow 
lale-of-Wiliows !  Isle-ef-Wilbws! 

It  pcn-lu'd  alone  on  a  lonely 
And  seeiiit'd  that  it  longed  and 
In  the  i>ht  it  sung  of  thui  to 
Isle-of- Willows !  IsleKsf-WiilowBl 

It  thonrrht,  perhaps,  of  a  littk  ble, 
When>  blue  the  waters  and  heaTcm  at 
And  grc(*n  the  willows  wave  all  thewh 
Mi'Hjf-Willuws !  Isle-of-WOIows! 


Is  this  thy  memory  or  thy 
Thy  iK'in;;*?  Imckwani  or  ibrwaid 
Whereto  thy  little  hear^iongin^ 
Isli'^f. Willows!  Isk-of- WiUoM I 


It  Slid  mi'  never  another 
But  Ultti^d  away  this  little  biid; 
Yet  ay«'  in  my  soul  its  v 
I>l.'-uf- Willows !  Isle^r-Wilbwi! 


JOHN  GIBSON  DUNN. 


John  Gibson  Dunn  was  born  in  the  town  of  Lawrenceborgh,  Indiana,  about  the 
year  1826,  and  he  died,  in  New  Orleans,  in  the  spring  of  1858.  He  was  the  oldest 
son  of  George  H.  Dunn,  who  for  many  years  occupied  high  official  station  in  the  State 
of  Indiana. 

John  G.  Dunn  was  educated  at  College  Hill,  near  Cincinnati,  and  at  South  Han- 
over, Indiana.  He  studied  medicine,  and  received  the  degree  of  M.D.,  at  Cin- 
cinnati. Soon  £^r  completing  his  course  of  study,  he  accepted  the  appointment  of 
assistant  surgeon  to  the  Third  Regiment  of  Indiana  Volunteers,  in  the  Mexican  war. 
He  discharged  his  duties  in  that  capacity  with  distinguished  ability,  and,  at  the  close 
of  the  war,  was  appointed  assistant  surgeon  in  the  regular  service  of  the  United 
States  army.  This  appointment  he  declined,  and  commenced  the  practice  of  medicine 
in  his  native  town. 

Besides  being  a  physician  of  rare  attainments  for  one  so  young,  Mr.  Dunn  was  an 
artist  as  well  as  a  poet  In  his  professional  labors,  and  in  his  devotion  to  the  kindred 
arts  of  poetry  and  painting,  he  displayed  eminent  abilities  for,  and  high  appreciation 
of,  science  and  art  If  he  had  been  content  with  any  one  line  of  life — ^had  his  genius 
been  steadily  required  to  flow  in  one  channel,  or  confined  to  a  single  aim,  he  would 
have  accomplished  memorable  works ;  but,  like  many  men  of  uncommon  natural  gifts, 
he  could  not  permanently  direct  his  energies  in  any  particular  pursuit  He  spent 
several  years  in  New  Orleans,  and,  while  there,  was  a  contributor  to  the  Delta,  He 
wrote  his  earliest  poems  for  the  Register  and  the  Independent  Press — papers  published 
in  his  native  town.  His  poems  have  never  been  collected.  He  was  careless  of  their 
fate.  The  accompanying  pieces  were  found  with  difficulty :  others  of  equal  or  supe- 
rior merit  were  produced  by  him. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  INEBRIATR* 

Whose   heart  is  broken  now?    None? 
None ! 

Yet  Death  hath  clutched  into  the  throng- 
ing world 

And  snatched  away  a  soul. 


*  This  poem  waa  Bugg(>8ted  by  the  death,  from  inebriety, 
of  Hn  abandoned  wretch,  known  in  Lawrenceborgb,  In- 
diana, as  Frouoh  John. 

(637) 


The  Earth  hath  gaped  again !    Her  clammy 

jaws 
Have  closed  in  darkness  on  another  form. 
The  grave-worm  whets  his  teeth!     His 

feast  is  there ! 
But  oh,  whose  heart,  whose  heart  is  broken 

now? 
No  eye  hath  rained  its  sorrows  o'er  that 

mound ; 
No  loving  hand  hath  clipped  a  single  lock. 


J3d 


JOHN   G.  DUNN. 


[16M- 


TiiL>  tomb  is  titoneless !     Not  a  sob  of  woe  On  every  rotten  Ureath ;    bc:ir6 


Or  prayer  hies  up  for  him  who  rots  bc- 

lU'nth. 
The    night-winds   sweeping   through    the 

iroz«.'n  grass 
Fhip  o'er  th«i  <l<»ad  their  chilly,  spirit  wings,! 
In  horror  wailing  out  his  only  dirge. 
Oh,  not  so  cold  the  gnisslcss,  frozen  earth 


juice 
Went  filoblK'ring  down  in  mnnj  a 

stream. 
Or  gurgU'd  through  his  veins     drore  K 

M>n  out 
With  all  her  troop  of  pure  and 

thoughts — 


As  this  world's  cold  and  selfish  heart  to  Enkindleil  pa<*»ion — firrd  the 


thee ; 


With  lieriH*  dtrsires  anil 


Not  half  so  dead  thy  ^:tiff  and  bloated  limbs 'Fed  Apjietite  till  he  a  giant  grew — 
As  is  thy  memory.     No  weeds  for  thee ! 
Poor,  murdered,  lost ! 


The  winter  stoim  will  flatten  down  thyi 
grave ; 


A  con()ueriiig  tyrant^i 
Who  seized  the  tliiune  of 
waste 

The  fairy  realms  of 
I  Drove  friemls  away  and  brongliK  the  wM 
Grass-coaxing  spring  will  come,  and  winds-         abuse — 

of  Juno,  I  Tore  from  his  l«iok  the  garb  of 

With  tender  blades  and  laughing  blooms  Whirled   his   frail    brain,  ^^ 

will  play  pu>lied  him  on, 

Ul>on  th«j  low,  undesigiiat<d  spot.  With  staggering  gait  and  horrid  UMpboQ 

The  heedless  parser's  foot  will  press  the  He  totten-d  through  the  strecCs  acigll^ 

turf  I         shame ! 

Unoon.-cious,  aye,  unmindful  of  thy  dust ;!  Hell    tripiK-d   him    npl      Hcaid  aoi  A 
And  many  a  |)onip  of  loud  and  splendid  drunkard's  splash  ? 

woe  ,Tiie  gutter  duimed    it«    own    in  flij 

Will  fMiss  thy  tomb,  and  in  a  bed  like  thine!         sin*am 

Laymanya  corse  for  i*ottenness  and  worms!  Poured  in  liis  strangling  iMMlrili»^rili 

Yet,  oh,  for;:otten  one,  thou  ha<lst  a  soul !  Hps 

But  men  think  not  of  this.    Shame,  curses,  Throu;:h  waters  filthj,  bhiblwrad 


sconi, 


(Kit  lis, 


Abuse,  reproach  and  hate — the  oidy  troop  Xo  lower  now  ! — thiu  bedded  vU  A 
That  formed  thy  fuiienil  march !    ^»'o  tears  bnite, 

for  th<e !  .The  grave  with  all  its  roCti 

Poor,  nnirdered,  l<)>t  !  Ptnir,  murdered,  lost ! 


He  h:id  a  soul!     A  soul?     Friends,  think  What  horrid  shrieking  thrills  the 

of  this  !  wind  ? 

IIav(^  ve  nut  looked  u{K>n  that  bloated  face?  What  writhing  form  is  jon,  in 
Have  ye  not  seen  that  red  <ind  dripping  room, 


evr  ? 


Who  rends  his  ooudi  of 


l^'h<*ld  ve  not  that  tattered,  fillhv  coat  ?  a;:onv 

Ila\c  \r  not   heard  the  luiid    and  horrid  Convul>ions    horrid    rack    hii 

iur-e  limbs! 

(.)!' cia/\   drunkrinie-.^  ?     Hi-lTs  language  His  sin-ngth,  a  giant*s! 

ro-e  ,         cjin  stay 


1850-GO.] 


JOHN   G.   DUNN. 


639 


His  strong,  flesh-rending  fingers !     How 

he  starts ! 
His  sinews  crack !    His  eyes  start  fiercely 

out! 
Now  anger  rages  like  the  fires  of  hell ! 
Now  frightful  visions  clutch  his  heart,  and 

loud 
He  shrieks  for  help !     Grim  fiends  sur- 
round his  couch ; 
They  gain  in  numbers  and  in  horrid  hue ; 
The  walls  are  full  of  horrid  images ; 
His  bed  ghdes  'neath  him — every  straw  a 

snake ; 
Foul  insects  creep  and  loathsome  reptiles 

cling 
Around  his  shrinking  limbs  I     Water  is 

offered — 
Nay;  'tis  flush  with  snakes,  and  newts,  and 

scorpions  green, 
Turmoiling  in  a  war  of  nauseous  slime  ! 
The  walls  are  falling — he  struggles  to  be 

free ; 
The  dreadful  forms  increase,  and  closer 

still, 
With  horrid  gibbering  and  gnashing  teeth ! 
The    ceiling    crumbles,  and    his    fearful 

shrieks 

Thrill  horror  to  the  soul ; — he  bursts  the 
power 

Of  strong  attendance  ! — Look  !   the   win- 
dow's near ! 
Clutch  him,  strong  hands  !     See  how  his 

veined  neck 
Swells  up  with  stagnant  blood ;  his  lips 
Puff*  out ;  he  raves  around  the  room 
From  fearful  hidden  foes !     Ha  I  see  that 

change — 
His  face  grows  livid — ^now  'tis  black  I     He 

leaps 
High    in  the  air,  and,  shrieking   wildly, 

fallB, 
With  uprolled,  sptismed  eyes,  and  knotted 

limbs. 
By  fierce  convulsions  twisted  out  of  form ! 
His  lips  spout  foam !     How  hollow  is  his 

groan ! 


One  tremor  more — 'tis  past !    A  soul  hath 

flown! 
Hell's  minions  triumph  o'er  that  house  of 

clay, 
Built  up  so  wondrously  by  Word  of  God ; 
And  hell  herself  hath  triumphed  o'er  the 

soul! 
Soul — body — all — hell's  minions  here  on 

earth, 
For  lucre's  hellish  bribe,  have  murdered 

thee, 

Forgotten,  lost  I 

Awake,  ye  slumbering  hearts !  raise  voice 

and  arm! 
Arouse  yon  man  who  folds  around  his 

form 
The  robe  of  sanctity,  and  sleeps  in  church. 
Oh,  look  not  idly  on  I     I  saw  his  son 
Look  into  hell  last  night !     Wake  I  erring 

soul. 
Who  on  the  streets  did  stand,  with  folded 

arms. 
And  preach  of  moral  suasion  I    Rouse  thee 

up! 
Hell's  ear  is  open,  but  she  hath  no  heart  I 
Why  prate  to  her  ?    Why  wheedle  with 

her  brood  ? 
I  saw  thy  son  go  staggering  through  the 

street ! 
Hast  thou  persuaded  him,  or  those  who 

poisoned  him  ? 
Blind    not    thyself,    and    oh,    let  others 

see! 
Hold,  demagogue!     What  doctrine  dost 

thou  preach  ? 
Thy  wealth  flows  freely  to  the  dens  of 

Death, 
And  poisoned  streams  flow  fireely  at  its 

touch. 
Wouldst  build  upon  the  wreck  of  ruined 

souls? 
Are  sobs  thy  music?  is  thy  banner  rags? 
Are  curses  thy  devotion,  and  the  tears 
Of  misery  thy  joy  ?     Behold !  thy  son 
Now  lies  a  bleeding  corse  in  yonder  den, 


A40 


JOIlxV   G.   DUNN. 


u 


Where  poisoned  bea'^ts  have  met  in  deadlj 

fray. 
Arouse  thee,  man  of  wealth !  oh,  count  no 

more 
Those  golden  pieces !    Thou  art  mast  un- 
wise; 
Another  year  may  scatter  all  thy  hoard. 
Know*st  not  thy  son's  a  gambler  ? 
Up  yonder  lane,  in  house  of  ill-repute, 
His  squandering  fingers  have  unloosed  thy 

purse. 
His  drunken  curse  is  loud — ^his  eye  is  wild. 
And  knowing  fiends  stir  up  his  appetite 
With  Death's  strong  waters.     Rouse !  oh, 

rouse  thee  then ! 
The  earth  yawns  for  him!    Aye,  for  many 

more. 
Proud  Intellect  is  struck  with  lunacy; 
Youth  falls  in  death ;  and  tottering  Old  Age, 
Bereft  of  veneration,  curses  life. 
Pale  Misery  stalks  where  Fortune  should 

have  dwelt ; 
While    Shame  crowds  Virtue  from  the 

street,  and  Death, 
With  many  a  hellish  minion  at  his  back. 
Lurks  in  each  den,  and  clutches  at  the 

throng. 
Awake  ye,  all  who  love  your  fellow-man, 
And,  with  a  swift,  determined  vengeance, 

sweep 
This  stain  of  murder  from  our  noble  land! 


SPIRIT  OF  EARTHQUAKE. 

'TwAS  the  noon  of  a  winter  night,  dreary 
and  dark ; 

The  winds  were  bewailing  the  dead ; 
In  i<'y  cold  fetters  the  forest  was  stark, 

And  the  Torrent  w«'ls  chained  in  his  bed. 

Ili^li  u\t  tlio   wild  ravine.'',  'mid  snow- 
mantUrd  pines, 
A  l>ri<'and  looked  i^jrtli  from  his  lair; 


But  naught  met  hifl 
cutting  lines 
Of  the  turreted 


kTc  the  ik 
in  the  air. 


That  day  he  had  battled  I     Tfa^  dij  I 

had  sLiin ! 
And  the  crimsoD  was  still  oo  hk 
But  afar  he  had  lelV,  on  the 
The  bravest  and  best  of  his 


lie  startled !    A  sound  swept  up  fiva  A 
gorge— 
A  voice  like  a  spirit  in  wail  I 
Still  nearer  and  hoarser  through  taria 
and  rock 
It  swept  on  the  sorrowing  gale ! 


The  pines  were  alive  with  a 
moans, 
And  the  Owl  from  hia 
screamed; 
The  night  far  beneath  him  wi 
with  groans. 
Like  the  depths  of  a  horrible 


Huge  clouds  swept  the 
billows  of  black. 
Enshrouding  his  lair  in 
And  the  wind  kept  howling 
ice  and  crack, 
Like  a  spirit  of  mnrder 


But  these  he  had  heard, 
seen, 
And  his  steely  sool  ^^<f»^ffl 
But,  oh  I  that  death-tonep  wU 
all  keen, 
A  chill  to  his  stem  spirit 


htM 


Dark,  wizanl-like  rhipca^ 
vapors  scowled; 
Strange  outlines  wUried  ap 
mass ; 
Still  louder  the  fearibl 
liowled 
New  z^urrows  throngh 


tht 
tht  «■ 


1850-60.] 


JOHN   G.    DUNN. 


541 


TThen  up  from  the  ravine  an  image  all 
dread, 

Through  vapor  and  midnight  was  borne ; 
Deep  thunder  awoke  at  his  horrible  tread, 

And  his  breath  was  the  terror  of  storm ! 

A  forest  of  pines  was  his  diadem  huge, 
And  a  mantle  of  fume  girt  him  round, 

And  he  crumbled  the  crags  in  his  iron- 
strong  clutch. 
As  he  came  up  the  steep  with  a  bound ! 

The  Brigand  stood  pale  in  the  tottering 
wood; 
His  spirit  was  swimming  in  fear ; 
And  his  pulse  was  all  still  in  its  curdle  of 
blood. 
As  the  giant's  voice  fell  on  his  ear: 

"  IVe  watched  thee  for  years  in  thj  bloody 
domain ; 
I've  watched  thee  in  murders  all  foul; 
And  IVe  gathered  together  the  souls  of 
tliy  slain, 
From  the  gloom  of  their  shadowy  goal!" 

So  he  stretched  his  huge  arms  through  the 
gathering  clouds — 
Wild   vistas   whirled  off   through  the 
gloom — 
And  the  murdered  host  came  with  their 
blood -dripping  shrouds, 
In  a  horrible  pomp  from  the  tomb ! 

*•  I   am    the    Spirit   of    Earthquake,"   he 
screamed  in  his  ire, 
'*  And  hell's  rocky  doorway  I  keep ! " 
So  he  stamped  the  broad  earth  till  with 
thunder  and  fire 
Her  surface  gaped  horrid  and  deep. 

And  he  heaved  the  huge  mount  in  his 
iron-knit  grasp. 
From  bis  base  in  the  tottering  world, 
And  glacier  and  forest,  with  thunderous 
crash, 
To  the  earth's  boiling  center  were  hurled. 


The  Brigand,  high  hurtled  through  tempest 
and  shock, 
Toppled  down  to  the  regions  of  doom. 
Whilst  high  o'er  his  corse  rose  a  chaos  of 
rocks, 
And  the   slaughtered  train  melted   in 
gloom. 


A  CHILD^S  THOUGHT. 

I  HAD  a  little  sister  once, 

With  mild  blue  eyes  and  curling  hair. 
One  night  we  stood  and  gazed  upon 

The  lightning's  wild  and  fitful  glare, 
And  as  each  wild,  chaotic  cloud 

Went  wreathing  up  the  startled  sky. 
And  frantic  thunders  echoed  loud, 

And  chain-fires  lit  the  vault  on  high, 
She  turned  her  little  eyes  on  me. 

And  pointing  to  the  lightning,  said : 
"  The  Grood  Man's  looking  down  to  see 

If  all  good  children  are  in  bed  ! " 
Then  trembling  with  the  childish  thought, 

She  quickly  breathed  her  little  prayer, 
And  'neath  the  pictured  curtain  sought 

Concealment  from  the  lightning's  glare« 

How  sadly  memory  steals  away 

To  joys  that  live  alone  in  youth, 
When  young  hopes  sang  their  roundelay. 

And  fiction  wore  the  hue  of  truth  I 
But  oh,  the  selfish  world  hath  taught 

My  broken  heart  another  tale — 
How  virtue's  sold  and  honor  bought, 

And  fools  upheld  while  good  men  fail. 
'Tis  well,  alas !  thou'rt  gone  beyond 

This  leorous  world — ^thou  wert  too  mild 
For  selfish  passion's  pompous  round^ — 

'Tis  well  thou'rt  in  thy  grave,  sweet  child ! 
When  glares  the  lightning-torch  on  high. 

And  storms  arouse  the  cloudy  deep, 
The  Good  Man  seeth  from  the  sky 

That  one  good  child  hath  gone  to  sleep ! 


642 


JOHN   (;.    DUNN. 


[let 


No  dew-faj  80  glad  when  be  wiadelfc 

THE  SPIDER-ELF.  horn, 

WiiKN  the  wolf-whelp  is  howling  in  tangle-  ^~™  *"*  «^"  "°  *«  ^^ 

^  1  3  mom ; 

wood  ttee{»,  ' 

And  ihe  forest's  low  niuining  lialh  lulled  Nor  the  katydid's  cbiltcriiig 

,     ,  telU 

u«i  to  slerp, 

'PI      c  -1  «  vir   ^:..   :-*   #i»«    ...i.:.*^.^*..„  Hor  story  of  love  in  the  boonie  bwg  b 

llie    Spider- Jblt    sits   in   the    whwpenng.   ,         .  : 

Nor  spirit  so  happy  in  water 


Itraves, 

And  he  worketh,  I  ween,  like  a  little 
plii1a*>o])her ; 
Windward  he  tniileth  each  thread  as  he 
weaves 
The  silvery  web  of  his  delicate  gossa- 
mer. 
With  quick-plying  fingers  he  hurlcth  it  out. 
And    carefully   wateheth    the  varying 
breeze ; 
lie   whirleth,  and   twisteth,  and    flitteth 
about, 
Till  he  maketh  it  fast  in  the  neighbor- 
ing trees. 

Quniiit  pranks  in  the  moonlight  he  playeth, 

I  ween. 
As  he  danceth  his  rope  o'er  the  shadowy 

stream, 


As  the  Spider- £IIf  perched  o*er  the  ■ 

muring  Hood ; 
For  the  quaintest  of  sprites  is  tUi  e 

philosopher, 
Building  his  fairy-like  bridge  oat  flf  !■ 

mer. 


THE  NAME  IN  THE  AH. 

TiffK  Wind,  he  is  a  cracj  wight. 

With  liollow  song  and 
W^hat  waggish  things  he 

When  all  the  world  is  fiut 
Ad(»wn  the  street  and  up  the 

lie  hieth  on  his  mission  diiDy; 


And   calletli  his  love  from  the  opposite, Or  km N'kfth  at  the  window-; 

tree.  Or  ealleth  through  the 

To  join  in  the  maze  of  his  wild  revelry.      Oh,  then  the  sleepy  servants 
Swln^nn<r,    and    chirping,    and    skipping      And  all  the  gifntle-follu  look  siDy; 

along  .  Gazing  in  the  vacant  air 

To  llir  wizard-like  time  of  the  whipiwwilV .  And  wondnng  who  wi 

song — 
Skywiuxl.  u.ul  earthward,  the  oJurous  air,    „,,„.  ^f,  .^  ^,j 
F itlully  .wiM^cth  the  {ribhering  ,,uir.  ^^.,,^,, ^^^^  ^^^ ^^ 

We  twine  the  mental  links  of 

Likt*  a  nrcklaoe  of  silver  and   diamond'     Or  tread  the  mazes  of 

lieiid<.  The  prvinr;  wind  comes  like  a  tkieC 

Tlic  drw-jfw<'ls  ^liine  on  tin*  gossamer       And  i in  at hrs  with  hollow  tone 
fvipe,  I  We  start  I  hut  scarcely 

Or  «!tij.|ii'th  am  in  n'rr  tlif  llowrrinjr  weeds,       N^r  loitri-s  near  a  living 
Wli!  re  the  ni;rlit  niotii,  and  all  of  his  He  lauizheth  then  to 
(*liirriipin<r  tnM>p  And  as  he  flitteth 

Hold  rout  in  the   blossoms  and  bursting  We  gaze  into  the  hollow  air, 
seeds.  And  wonder  who       I 


1850-60.] 


JOHN   G.    DUNN. 


543 


WHO'LL  BE  THE  NEXT  TO  DIE  ? 

Sleep  shut  the  World's  great  eye; 

Pale  Sorrow  found  a  balm ; 
The  night-hawk  ceased  his  shrilly  cry, 

And  Life's  broad  sea  was  calm. 

An  undertaker  hung 

O'er  a  coffin,  all  alone ; 
And  wearily  he  sung, 

As  the  dreary  work  went  on. 
He  varnished  every  side, 

Then  drove  the  screwlets  bright, 
As    he   huD:m3ed   away  those  gloomy 

hours, 
While  Fancy  penciled  elfin  powers 

Pavilioned  in  the  night 

All  weary  was  his  eye ; 

The  work  was  nearly  done ; 
And  the  crazy  wind  went  wailing  by, 

And  every  cranny  moaned ; 
When,  sadly  to  his  ear, 

There  came  a  spirit  sigh : 
**  One  coffin  only,  hast  thou  here— 

Who'll  be  the  next  to  die  ?  " 

Ilis  heart  was  clutched  with  fright ; 

He  glared  around  the  room ; 
The  pale  and  waning  light 

Scarce  battled  with  the  gloom. 
No  specter  met  his  eye ; 

No  fiend  was  penciled  there; 
But  the  crazy  wind  still  sorrowed  by. 

And  a  moan  was  in  the  air. 

"I'm  sure  it  was  not  me. 

Denoted  in  that  sigh ; 
Thank  G^od,  it  did  not  breathe  my  name. 

As  it  went  moaning  by  ! " 
But  still  again  that  spirit  came; 

Again  the  quaint  reply — 


^  One  coffin,  only,  hast  thoa  here— 
Who'll  be  the  next  to  die  ?  " 

He  conned  his  sick  friends  o'er ; 

He  argued  every  ail ; 
Thought  of  self  once  more, 

And  lip  and  cheek  were  pale. 
"  Ah  !  sure  it  was  not  me," 

Came  trembling  with  a  sigh. 
As  he  conned  away  right  wond'ringly 

Who'll  be  the  next  to  die  ? 

"  There's  the  old  man,  up  the  street, 

Who  begs  the  livelong  day, 
Death  laggers  at  his  feet. 

And  beckons  him  away. 
The  maiden,  down  the  lane. 

Will  soon  be  gone,  I  ween, 
Life's  little  lamp  doth  wane. 

Her  eye  hath  lost  its  sheen ; 

"  And  there's  my  neighbor's  child, 

Slow  languishing  away, 
'Twill  be  an  angel  soon,  I  know, 

High  at  the  fount  of  day. 
I'm  sure  it  was  not  me, 

Denoted  in  that  sigh, 
For  these,  alas,  I  ween, 

Will  be  the  next  to  die  1 " 

"  Frail  fool  I "  the  spirit  cried, 

"  Though  thou  art  stout  and  hale, 
This  night,  indeed,  shalt  thou  abide 

Low  in  the  realms  of  wail  I " 
That  night  came  grim  Disease 

Through  every  vein  and  tissue  dark ; 
Black  midnight  brought  no  ease ; 

Pale  morning  saw  him  stariL  I 

Let  every  earthly  elf 

Attend  that  spirit's  cry, 
Nor  whisper  to  himself, 

I'll  be  the  kst  to  die  I 


I » > 


HELEN  TRUESDELL. 


In  the  year  1856,  Ephraim  Morgan  and  Sons,  Cincinnati,  poblialied  die 
tioii  of  a  duodecimo  volume  of  212  pages,  entitled,  "Poema  by  Helen  TmciA 
Mrs.  T.  was  then  u  resident  of  New|X)rt,  Kentucky.  She  waii,  in  18M 
regular  contributor  to  the  Parlor  Magazine^  a  monthly  of  coniidpnible 
Jethro  Jackson  published  from  1853  to  1856,  in  Cincinnati.  Miw.  Tnniddl 
prttviously  written  for  the  Ladies*  Repository^  but  since  the  publicntion  of  ker  \ 
has  not,  so  far  as  our  knowledge  goes,  addressed  the  public 

llcr  volume  was  favoriibty  noticed  by  prominent  journalists  T\m  Ohm 
Efif/itirer  said:  ^^That  the  book  {)ossesses  high  poetic  merit  we  most  nllow^ — tki 
the  way,  is  the  concession  of  our  judgment — not  the  mere  moath-ptaue  of  ^Bi 
for  the  sex.  Uer  style  is  simple,  pure  and  sweet,  tinged  with  a  melancholy  i] 
which  is  oftea  rather  a  cliarm  to  poetry  than  a  defect." 


TUE  YOUNG  WlFirS  SONG. 

I  LIST  for  thy  foot5tei>9,  my  darling; 

Tvc  waited  and  watched  for  thee  long: 
The  dim  woods  liavc  heanl  my  complain* 

i»irs 

And  sorrow  has  saddened  my  song. 

Tin'  last  ravs  of  sunset  are  (rildiiij; 

The  hill-tops  with  ]nirph'  and  g«>Id; 
AinK  lo!  in  von  azun*  dominion, 

« 

1)4 K'S  a  beautiful  niinliow  untold. 


Or  c*er  to  the  home  of  m  j 
The  licnuiiful  cot  far  awaj. 

Where  the  birds  aang  ao 
gladness, 
And  I  was  as  happj  as  tliej? 


The  lone  willow  droops  in  its 

The  stem  (uik  stands  stuniy  and  m 

Hut  a  loved  form  is  seen  in  llie  didlia 
And  foot>ti-ps  are  heard  on  tiie  hiD. 


*-Tishe:  'tismy  Clric!  I 
I      1  see  him;  (.)!  joy,  he  k  lieral 
!  Sh(*  threw  back  her  curia  in 
And  sik'Utly  brushed  off  n 


Likr'  tin'  liucs  of  that  niinbuw,  my  spirit 

All  roiidly  is  blrndrd  with  thiiii* ; 
Then  Imw  canst  thou  linirt-r  awav,  love. 

■ 

AVhiii  thou  knowVt  this  fond  spirit  will 

■     V  Then*  wen^  low-muminred 

I'll  i\.   • 

jriveni»'«s ; 
Tlx-  *:AUii'  and  the  chasi;  are  alluriii;r.  Fond  clamping  of  handsi  nod  a 

I  know,  my  IniM  hunter,  for  tlirc ;  j  The  pa-^t !  ah!  the  past  is 

r>iit  when  liornt*  tm  thy  swit\  Arab  courserJ      What    could    mar   sudi   n 

l)o  thv  thuiiiilits  r\i.'r  wander  to  me?  this  I 

(544) 


M  ^m 


ORPHEUS   EVERTS. 


the  Spring  of  the  year  1856,  an  octavo  pamphlet  of  eighty  pages,  printed  at  the 
of  the  7\me8  newspaper  in  La  Porte,  Indiana,  introduced  to  the  literary  world 
wequah,  an  Indian  Legend,  and  other  poems."  In  the  same  seascm  of  the  suc- 
ig  year  another  pamphlet,  containing  ninety-two  pages,  was  printed  at  the  same 
Its  title  was  ^'  The  Spectral  Bride  and  other  poems,"  by  0.  Everts.  Kind 
s  of  ^^  Onawequah  "  had  induced  its  author  to  formally  acknowledge  his  poems, 
ssue  a  second  collection.  The  leading  poems  in  these  pamphlets  exhibit  both 
feeling  and  poetic  art,  but  one  not  elaborated  with  care  sufficient  to  make  them 
rable.  Some  of  the  minor  poems  in  Mr.  Everts's  collections  have  been  widely 
Ated  and  much  admired. 

.  Everts  is  a  native  of  Indiana.     He  was  bom  at  Liberty,  Union  county,  De- 
T  eighteenth,  1826.     His  father,  who  had  been  a  physician  in  Cincinnati  when 
a  village,  settled  in  Indiana  before  it  was  organized  as  a  State.    The  son  en- 
limited  common  school  advantages,  but  was  a  diligent  reader,  and,  having  de- 
led to  embrace  his  father's  profession,  was  graduated  as  a  Doctor  of  Medicine 
he  was  nineteen  years  old.     He  practiced  medicine  and  surgery  for  several 
but  having,  meantime,  developed  a  poetic  faculty,  abandoned  his  profession  for 
ial  life.     He  was  editor  of  the  Times,  La  Porte,  Indiana,  in  1857,  when  he  ac- 
1  an  appointment,  under  President  Buchanan,  as  Register  of  a  United  States 
Office,  and  has  since  resided  at  Hudson,  Wisconsin.    Mr.  Everts  is  an  amateur 
of  merit,  and  hopes  to  paint  poetry  as  well  as  write  it,  when  a  few  years  of 
htful  experience  have  given  him  skill  and  confidence. 


TIME. 

:•  upon  Time!" — said  the  Lord  of 
•hyme, 

a  lordly  lip,  in  tones  sublime ! 
pon  Time !     We  say  not  so — 
is  our  friend,  and  never  our  fc)e ! 
calms  our  fears,  and  dries  our  tears, 
plucks  the  sting  from  many  a  woe. 
ae  is  the  fath»;r  of  many  years  I 
'  are  dead — and  many  more 
follow  the  shadows  gone  before 


Yet  weep  not,  for  lol  death  only  deprives, 
That  Time  may  find  room  and  food  for 
new  lives. 

Rail  not  at  Time  I  for  our  trust  in  him 
Fills  the  beaker  of  hope  to  the  brim  I 
Bubbles  of  joy  like  foam  on  the  wine 
Promise  us  nectar — ^bumpers  divine ! 

We  drink,  and  we  drink, 

And  our  glasses  clink, 
But  never  are  empty,  never  sink : 
For  a  generous  hand  hath  Father  Time, 
And  his  vintages  gush  in  every  clime  I 


(646) 


35 


646 


ORIMIEUS    EVERTS. 


I 


THE  DEAD. 

Why  do  we  mourn  for  the  dead  ? 

Are  they  not  in  Freedom's  embrace  ? 
Like  serfs  who  have  looked  in  the  face 

C>f  their  Tynmt,  less  noble  than  they ! 
And  felt  that  their  chains  were  disgrace, 

And  proudly  have  cast  them  away  I 

Why  do  we  mourn  for  the  dead  ? 

Are  they  not  more  blessed  by  far? 
Like  heroes  gone  home  from  the  war 

With  laurels — whilst  we  in  the  field, 
In  the  moats  and  the  ditches  still  war, 

Kre  we  to  the  conqueror  yield ! 

Why  do  we  mourn  for  the  dead  ? 

Are  they  not  still  better  than  we  ? 
Like  mariners  gone  irom  the  sea. 

With   its  troubles,  and  breakers,  and 
foam, 
Gone  off  from  th*  tempestuous  sea, 

To  peace,  and  the  quiet  of  home. 

Why  do  we  mourn  for  the  dead  ? 

What  is  their  state,  and  our  own  ? 
Like  emigrants  gone  to  a  zone 

Of  beauty,  of  love,  and  of  light, 
Are  they — while  around  us,  alone. 

Are  darkness,  and  winter,  and  blight. 


HEART  AND  SOUL, 

LovR  took  my  heart  and  sought  a  wife, 
Saying  *'  Who  will  have  it  ?" — *•  I,"  said 

one. 
My  htart  leaped  toward  her,  and  there 
>l>un 
Tliniu;:;li  ever}'  vein  new  threads  of  life. 

Kut  when  my  Soul  looked  out,  and  knew 
Whither  my  heart  had  gone,  it  said, 


^Come  back!  oome 
wed, 
Thy  life  to  her  will  prove 


And  so  my  Mul  took  back  nj 
And  buried  it  within  nj 
Saying  '^Bcst,  thou  Ibolaih 
rest! 

For  thou  and  I  aboaklsl  nercr 


And  though  love  since  hath  oAcb  ki 
And  asked  my  heart  to  go  asCraj, 
My  soul  refuj«d  to  point  tlie  way, 

Or  ope'  the  cell  wherein  'twaa  locfcei 


And  though  it  oft  laments  its 
And  strives  to  be  released. 
Relentless,  keeps  it  in 

With  «« Wait  a  little 


SmV 


Therell  oome  a  time,  I  know  as 
Some  one  will  ask  mj  son!  Is 
My  heart  shall  leap  into  the 

And  all  as  one  shall  min^ 


WDTTEB  RAM 

How  dreaiy  is  the  winter 
How  dismal,  and  how  dark  ths 
How  hitter,  and  how  oold  tks 

That  never  seems  the  cfaods  la 


How  spiritless  the  winter 
It  hath  no  voice  to 
No  lightnings  leap  from 

That  drives  it  o*er  the 


thek 


There  is  no  cheer  in  winter 
Like  that  whksh  ialLi 
Which  swelling  bojs 


April  dv 


And  brings  forth  laaghtar  flam  tks  | 


1850-60.] 


ORPHEUS   EVERTS. 


647 


The  groves  lament  the  winter  rain. 
Berefl  of  all  their  Summer  leaver— 
Their  bare  arms  dripping  like  the  eaves, 

Are  stiffened,  it  would  seem,  with  pain ! 

Nor  man  nor  beast  loves  winter  rain. 
It  brings  no  joy — suggesteth  none  I 
It    comes    with    sigh,  and    wail,   and 
moan — 

It  chills  the  heart,  and  chills  the  brain. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "  ONAWEQUAH." 

MOONLIGHT  ON  THB  PRAIRIB. 

The  Bison  slept  upon  the  plain, 
The  dew  was  dripping  from  his  mane ; 
His  lazy  jaws  were  mumbling  o'er 
The  grass  they'd  cropped  the  day  before. 
The  wild  Deer  sought  the  shaded  brink 
Of  moonlit  stream,  to  rest,  and  drink ; 
The  sleepless  Wolf  upon  his  trail — 
With   peering  front   snuffed  the  fresh 
gale. 
"The  Beaver  looked  out  of  his  cabin  door, 
-^nd  the  Otter  played  with  shells  on  the 
shore. 
The   wild  Groose  hooded  her  head  in 

sleep. 
Resting  her  bosom  on  the  deep ; 
Her  hood  was  the   nether  down  of  her 

wing — 
And  she  rocked  to  sleep  on  the  water's 
swing. 
In  an  old  oak  tree,  on  a  leafless  limb, 
Rested  an  Owl,  in  moonlight  dim ; 
His  wild  too-lioo,  through  the  forest  ring- 

Startled  the  child  on  a  bent  bough  swing- 
ing; 
With  the  teetering  winds  for  a  "  lullaby," 
Its  cradle  a  tree,  its  blanket,  the  sky  I 
And  high  above,  on  a  rocky  peak. 


Where   night-winds    through  the  cedars 

creak, 
An  Eagle  was  perched,  from  danger  free, 
Scorning  the  height  of  forest  tree. 
Which,  far  beneath  his  strong  wing's 

play. 
Was  shrouded  in  mist  of  vapors  gray. 
The  Grouse-Cock  watched  by  the  silent 

hen; 
The  Serpent  coiled  in  the  slimy  fen ; 
The  innocent  Hare  with  tuft  of  white. 
Sported  his  limbs  in  soft  moonlight, 
Which  round  and  round  o'er  valley  and 

hiU, 
Was  dancing  in  fairy-like  loveliness  stilL 


THB  OHDEFTAIN'S  DAUGHTKB. 

No  palor,  on  her  brown  cheek  spreading. 
Betrays  the  danger  she  is  treading ; 
Her  feet  as  light  as  nimble  deer's. 
Are  winged  with  love's  elasltic  fears ; 
Her  moccasins  adorned  with  quills. 
Tread  soft,  as  morning  o'er  the  hills ; 
Her  glossy  braids  of  raven  hair. 
Are  floating  round  her  shoulders  bare, 
Her  swelling  bosom,  tinged  with  hue 
Of  sunny  brown,  has  felt  the  dew ; 
And  gaudy  scarf  of  crimson  dye. 
Obscured  its  beauty  from  the  eye, 
About  her  waist,  a  beaded  belt 
Suspends  a  skirt  of  rudest  felt ; 
Her  rounded  limbs,  of  tapering  mould. 
Disdain  protection  frx)m  the  cold ; 
Her  eye — the  Eagle's  on  yon  peak 
Hath    not    the    power   which    hers   can 

speak! 
The  mildest  star  in  heaven's  blue  zone. 
Hath  not  the  softness  of  its  tone, 
When  love  hath  kindled  in  its  orb 
A  light  the  heart  may  all  absorb  I 
The  lightning's  gleam  in  darkest  night. 
Is  not  more  scathing  in  its  light, 
When  rage  hath  fanned  it  into  flame. 
And    'roused    the  blood  no    power   can 

tame! 


HORATIO  N.  POWERS. 


Horatio  Nelson  Powers  was  born  at  Amenia,  DacheM  countjy  K«v  Ti 
on  the  thirtieth  day  of  April,  1826.  He  laid  the  foundatkm  fiir  a 
at  Amenia  Seminary,  in  hid  native  State,  and  graduated  at  Unkm 
tady.  Having  determined  to  enter  the  Chri<«tian  Ministry,  he  then 
the  coarse  of  study  at  the  General  Theological  Seminaiy  of  New  Tork  Cql  I 
1857  he  was  married,  at  Lancaster,  Pennsyh'ania,  to  a  danghter  of  Frandi  Fan 
Gouraud,  formerly  a  Professor  in  the  University  of  France. 

Mr.  Powers  is  a  contributor  to  the  New  Tork  Evening  Poai^  Qrakam^M 
and  the  LadM  Repository  of  Cincinnati,  and  he  was  one  of  the  writen  ibr 
Magazine.     Several  of  his  poems  have  been  copied  into  Litidt»  Umm§  A§9^ 
periodicals  of  wide  circulation. 

Air.  Powers  is  a  clergyman  in  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Ghmch, 
Davenport,  Iowa. 


THE  RIVER  OF  TEARS. 

In  the  ghastly  dusk  of  cypress  shade 
O  er  the  beaten  sands  of  a  dismal  glade, 
The  River  of  Tears,  with  ceaseless  flow, 
Rolled  its  bitter  waves  of  human  woe. 

Th(*  herblcAS  mountains  that  gird  the  vale 
In  an  cndkM<8  dawn,  stand  cold  and  pale ; 
And  the  lusterless  clouds  droop  down  so 

low, 
TlH*y  touch  the  face  of  the  stream  below. 

No  honeyed  blossoms  breathe  balm  around 
In   the  funeral  gloom  that  shrouds  the 

ground; 
I  (lit  daric,  rank  weeds  reach  greedily  o'er 
To  sip  the  surge  on  tlie  level  shore. 

Willi  shrieks  oft  startle  thi»  dusky  air, 

And  the  smuthen^d  howl  of  miul  dcsjmir, —  And  the  swollen 


In  aimless  courses  deep  ^nnt|iiili 
Of  the  suffering  ooea  of  lon^ 
As  the  sad  prooessioiiy  with 
Went  wandering  over  the 


In  the  sullen  shadows 
Stalk  imllid  sorrow  and  ahi 
Frail  youth,  bent  age,  and 
And  the  gentle  and  good 
cold. 


In  ho|)eIoss  angnish  some  hide 
And  with  pale,  wan  kioks 

skies. 
Some  l)eat  their  boson 
And  some  feel  round  ui  the 


Thus  in  mournful  groapa  thejr 
None  tells  to  another  Ida  w^^  ef 


'While  the  pleading  wail  of  love*s  last  cry 
Flouts  o*er  the  waves  to  the.  leaden  sky. 


shroud. 
Goes  down  to  its 


(548) 


1850-60.] 


HORATIO   N.  POWERS 


649 


THE  ANGEL'S  BRn)GR 

Whene'er  a  rainbow  slept  along  the  sky, 

The  thoughtful   child   expected  Angel 

bands 

Would  glide  upon  its  gorgeous  path  of  light, 

With   half  furled  wings   and   meekly 

folded  hands! 

For  he  had  dreamed  the  rainbow  was  a 
bridge, 
On  which  came  bright  ones  from  the  far- 
off  shore, — 

A  strange  and  pleasant  dream — but  he 
"believed"— 

And  his  young  heart  with  love*s  sweet 
&ith  ran  o*er. 

How  full  of  sunny  hopefulness  his  face, 
How  many  tender  welcomes  filled  his 
eyes, 
When  for  celestial  visitants  he  watched, 
In  mute  and  holy  converse  with  the 
skies! 

The  saintly  child  grew  very  wan  and  weak ; 

And  as  he  lay  upon  the  bed  of  pain. 
One  day  of  storm,  he  only  gently  said, 

"When  will  the  AngeFs  Bridge  reach 
down  again?" 

In   musing  trance  while  gazing  on  the 
clouds, 
A  flood  of  sunlight  lit  the  lumed  air, 
And  springing  forth,  as  if  from  Grod's  own 
arms, 
A  lustrous  rainbow  shown  divinely  there. 

A  tender  smile  played  o*er  the  child's  pale 
lips — 
"  Down  the  bright  arch  the  white  robed 
Angels  come, 
O,  see  their  shining  pinions! — their  sweet 
eves ! " — 
He  said — and,  'mid  their  soft  embraces, 
floated  home. 


THE  FISHER  BOY.* 

Moulded  in  pure  and  perfect  grace, 
His  white  feet  poised  on  silent  sands. 

And  boyhood's  spirit  on  his  face, 
A  shape  of  life's  best  hour  he  stands. 

His  net  droops  on  the  idle  oar, 
He  listens  as  to  whispers  dear, — 

What  hears  he  on  the  mighty  shore, 
Pressing  the  sea-shell  to  his  ear? 

Is  it  the  sofl-toned  rapture  caught 

From  rosy  lips  of  Naiadee, 
That  bums,  with  pictured  joy,  his  thou^l 

Of  the  rare  beauty  of  the  seas  ? 

Is  it  some  loved,  unuttered  same, 
Wooed  by  the  waves   firom    lands 
remote. 

Or  echo  of  forgotten  fiime, 

Kept  in  the  shell's  vermilion  throat; 

Or  some  strange  syllables  he  seeks, 
Of  ancient  ocean's  mystic  lore,— 

The  solenm  measures  that  she  speaks 
With  charm^  tongues  forevermore  ? 

Still  listening  in  that  keen  suq»ense, 
What  curious  fimdes  oome  and  go; 

What  pleasant  wishes  thrill  his  sense 
For  what  he  ne'er,  ah,  ne'er  shall 
know! 

0,  artist  I  in  whose  deathless  tbovght 
This  radiant  being  lived  and  grew, 

More     glorious    meaning    hast    thou 
wroo^t, 
Than  thy  divine  ooncepticm  knew  I 

For  'tis  the  type  of  Youth's  rich  trance, 
Beside  the  wide  world's  unknown  sea, 

Weaving  the  sweet  tones  of  romance 
Into  the  promised  bliss  to  be. 

*  A  Stetae  by  Hlnm  Poiran. 


HELEN   LOUISA  BOSTWICK. 


No  woman  poet  of  our  country,  as  the  writer  of  this  noCioe  thinkiy 
Mrs.  Bodtwick  in  those  graces  of  thougliU}  and  8tyle  which  distingniik  ber  poe 
Her  choice  of  words  !<«  extremely  felicitous;  her  rhyme  is  rich  and  fuU;  kcr  foi 
always  sweet  and  hunnonious.  While  there  is  a  certain  warmth  of  oolor  u  her  i 
that  approaches  sensuousness,  her  thought  is  delicate  and  womanly.  She  ii  m/Ma 
\y  versatile,  but  mast  oi*  her  effusions  have  been  called  forth  by  thoae  dear  Etik  t 
mon  incidents  of  life  which  women  are  peculiarly  gii\ed  to  in  veal  with  poeCij.  I 
stow  upon  Mrs.  Bostwick  a  sincere  praise  that  need  not  waste  itaelf  in  nrrlii 
Iler  poems  betray  study  of  the  best  authors  of  our  language,  without  bcmg  tht 
original.     If  her  faculty  does  not  amount  to  genius,  it  is  at  least  tnuMoeodeBl  tA 

She  was  bom  in  Charleston,  New  Ilamfishire,  in  1826,  and  was  mamed  ui  O 
1844;  her  present  residence  is  at  Ravenna,  Portage  county,  Ohio.     In 
received  the  portion  with  which  New  England  endows  all  her 
school  education — with  an  academic  course  under  Rev.  A.  A.  Miners  of 

I  forgive  myself  readily  for  quoting  what  she  so  gracefully  says  of  hcwcH  ■  i 
ter  to  the  editor  of  the  present  volume : 

Tliough  I  belong  to  the  Went,  love  it,  appn^iatc  it.  and  Riory  In  It,  and  harv  do 
when.',  yet  I  believe  that  whatever  of  poetry  is  to  my  nature  had  itn  origin  and 
hill-Hides  and  valleys  of  my  New  England  home.    Nestled  close  at  the  foot  of  oU 
the  Connecticut  upon  one  hand,  and  upon  the  other  the  wild  hilU  with  their  Jnttbig  rike  aiA 
of  granite,  among  which  my  feet  even  now  could  track  out  familiar   pathwie    w  ay 
place  and  home  for  twelve  yean.    In  1838  my  father  removed  to  Ohio,  and  b  liri^^  «l 
mother,  near  Ravenna. 

My  life  has  been  bo  emphatically  a  ** still  life,"  that  I  cannot  conceive  bow  wqf  ^hMil 
could  be  of  interetit  to  any  piTHon  outride  the  circle  of  f^'it-ndi'.  The  little  of  iii^i4*at  AM  I 
viTHiticd  it  huji  been  of  the  quietest  d<«cription,  and  all  uf  excitummt  that  has  ili^jilwd  ift  ha 
among  the  uuder-curreuti«,  not  upon  the  surface.    I  have  no  etury  to  telL 


]Mrs.  Bostwick,  though  not  the  author  of  any  volume,  has  long 
tributor  of  literary  journals,  among  which  we  can  mention  the 
Farmery  New   York  Independent^  Home  Journal^  Saturday  JBvemm^ 
Home  Monthly  J  New  York.     It  is  hoped  that  it  will  not  be  long  till 
world  a  bouquet  of  thost*  flowers  which  have  made  her  name  so  fngnuL 

She  has  written  churmily  for  children,  those  little  stories  whidi 
fully.     A  volume  of  these  she  has  collected,  which  will  be  published 
ing  Autumn  by  Follett,  Foster  &  Company. 


(MO) 


XS50-60.] 


HELEN    L.   BOSTWICK. 


551 


LAST  YEAR'S  NESTS. 

One  May  morD,  when  the  sun  was  bright, 
.And  orchard  blooms  of  pink  and  white, 
fihook  ofif  the  showers  of  yesternight — 

I  spied  a  farmer,  on  his  way, 
^With  sturdy  team  of  roan  and  bay, 
To  where  the  half-plowed  meadow  lay. 

1  liked  the  old  man's  heartsome  tone ; 
And  caring  not  to  muse  alone, 
Measured  my  pace  with  sturdy  roan. 

The  reddening  boughs  drooped  overhead — 
The  moist  earth  mellowed  'neath  our  tread. 
We  talked  of  beauty,  and  of  bread. 

He  told  me  how  young  farmer  Boone 
Would  sow  too  late,  and  reap  too  soon. 
And  in  wrong  quarters  of  the  moon — 

How  fell  the  pear-tree's  finest  graft 
Before  his  knife,  and  milkmaids  laughed 
At  his  odd  feats  in  dairy  craft. 

And  all  because,  in  cities  bred, 
His  youth  behind  a  counter  sped. 
Where  dust  and  ink  had  clogged  his  head  I 

Sudden  the  old  man  stepped  aside — 
A  bird's  nest  on  the  tree  he  spied, 
And  flung  it  to  the  breezes  wide. 

**  Where  last  year's  nests,  forlorn,  I  see. 
On  flowering  shrub,  or  bearing  tree, 
I  fling  them  to  the  winds,"  said  he ; — 

**  Else  insects  there  will  shelter  find, 
And  caterpillars  spin  and  wind. 
Marring  the  young  fruit's  tender  rind." 

Most  simple  words ! — ^yet  none  can  tell 
How  through  my  spirit's  depths  they  fell. 
As  iron-weights  sink  in  a  well. 


And  why,  I  cried,  oh !  human  Heart, 
When  all  thy  singing  ones  depart, 
Leam'st  thou  so  ill  the  yeoman's  art  I 

Why  seek,  with  Spring's  returning  glow. 

The  music  and  the  golden  flow 

Of  wings  that  vanished  ere  the  snow  ? 

Why  long  remembered,  long  deplored, 
The  brooded  Hopes  that  sang  and  soared. 
The  Loves  that  such  rare  radiance  poured? 

Oh,  memory-haunted  and  oppress'd — 
Lorn  heart !  the  peasants'  toil  is  best- 
Down  with  thy  last  year's  empty  nest ! 


THE  LITTLE  COFFIN. 

'TwAS  a  tiny  rosewood  thing, 
Ebon  bound,  and  glittering 
With  its  stars  of  silver  white, 
Silver  tablet,  blank  and  bright, 
Downy  pillowed,  satin  lined, 
Tliat  I,  loitering,  chanced  to  find 
'Mid  the  dust,  and  scent,  and  gloom 
Of  the  undertaker's  room, 
Waiting  empty — ^ah  I  for  whom  ? 

Ah  I  what  love-watched  cradle-bed 
Keeps  to-night  the  nestling  head ; 
Or,  on  what  soft,  pillowing  breast 
Is  the  cherub  form  at  rest. 
That  ere  long,  with  darkened  eye 
Sleeping  to  no  lullaby, 
Whitely  robed,  and  still,  and  oold, 
Pale  flowers  slipping  from  its  hold, 
Shall  this  dainty  couch  enfold  ? 

Ah  I  what  bitter  tears  shall  stain 
All  this  satin  sheen  like  rain, 
And  what  towering  hopes  be  hid 
'Neath  this  tiny  coffin  lid, 
Scarcely  large  enough  to  bear 


652 


HELEN    L.   BOSTWICK. 


Itt 


Little  words,  that  muat  be  there, 
Little  wordjs  cut  deep  and  true, 
Bleeding  mothers'  hearts  anew — 
Sweety  pet  name,  and  ^  Aged  Twa' 

Oh !  can  8orrow*s  hovering  plume 
Round  our  pathway  cast  a  gloom 
Chill  and  daricsome,  as  the  sliade 
67  an  infant's  coffin  made  I 
From  our  arms  an  angel  flies. 
And  our  startled,  dazzled  eyes 
Weeping  round  its  vacant  place, 
Cannot  rise  its  path  to  trace, 
Cannot  see  the  angel's  face ! 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  DIMPLES. 

Mr  mischief-loving  maiden  Bell ! 

Sit  here  and  listen  while  I  tell — 

Awhile  your  saucy  tongue  to  tame-^ 

A  pretty  tale  without  a  name, 

Save  this,  of  **  How  the  Dimples  Came." 

A  merry  girl,  the  story  goes, 

With  eyes  of  violet,  cheeks  of  rose, 

One  day,  with  feet  that  noiseless  stepp'd. 

Behind  her  lover,  tiptoe  crept ; 

And  peeped,  with  many  a  bow  and  bend, 

While  he,  all  unsuspecting,  penn'd 

A  timorous  sonnet  to  the  maid, 

Which    doubted,    hoped,    despair'd,    and 

pray*d. 
SI  10  pcep'd,  and  read,  too  pleased  by  half. 
And   smiled,   and   smiled,  but  durst   not 

laugh ; 
And  so  a  strange  event  occurred ; 
It  hap[K*n'd  thus,  as  I  have  heanl : 
Tlu'  dainty  mouth,  too  small,  I  doubt, 
To  let  so  much  of  smiling  out, 
BcfaiiH*  a  priMm  most  ^^'(■u^c, 
Antl  held  the  lovely  legions  sure. 
Weurie<l,  at  length,  of  diinuice  vile, 
Iini)atient  grew  ejich  captive  smile ; 


Still,  fain  some  outlet  new  to 
They  wreathed  and  coiTd  in  either  dk 
Still  at  the  ruby  portals  fiul. 
Vainly  sought  exit,  and  1 
Grown  desperate,  ao  the 
Cleft  a  new  passage  through  the  ion 


Love's  kiM  half  heoTd  the 
And  gave  the  womd  its 
Since  not  unthankful. 
Her  cheek  less  sacred  than  her  Ip^ 
And  while  thej  smile  their  pradm' 
So  fair  the  deepening  (Umplea  dho«^ 
That  Love,  reminded  of  hit 
May  take  the  gneidoo  widioat 
And  this  is  How  the 


TOO  LATE! 

''  Tu  weary  with  my  walkt 
Yet  'tis  only  half  a  mile^ 

Through  the  meadow,  to  the 
Of  the  oak-tree  by  the  itiHb, 


^  And  'twas  there  I  lat  aa 
By  this  jeweled  waldi  of 

Looking  over  through  the 
Till  the  mowen 


^  They  were  meny  at  their 
Laughing,  singing,  all 

Silent,  lonely,  toiled  he  oalyt 
Joyless,  'neath  the 


""  But  I  thought  of  his  mirAAd 

In  the  olden  barrert 
Of  the  laughter  that 

All  his  riddles  and  hit 


'*  Of  one  nooning  in  that 

When  the  saucyt  filnanfag  gbb 

Bade  him,  as  he  priaed  thrir  finely 
Weave  a  chaplel  ibr  their 


0-60.] 


ELEy   L.   5v5TV:-ri 


'*rom  the  brier-bushes  near 
Straight  he  plucked  the 
^htlj    bound,    and 

them 
With  the  treacherous 


L^rrt 


)ut  from  mine  the  thorns  he 
Mine  alone,  of  all  the  band ; 
R8  it  warning  of  mj  scoming. 
That  the  sharpest  pierced  his  hand? 

f on  fair  city's  proudest  mansion 
Opes  for  me  its  marble  bowers, 
»untains  springing,  rare  birds  angii^ 
Songs  of  love  to  tropic  flowers. 


f et  lovelier  on  mj  sight,  Mabel, 
Comes  the  home  my  childhood 
>n  low  cabin,  with  its  robin, 
And  its  morning-glories  blue ! 


^hat  though  robes  of  Ind  and  Cashmere, 
Silks  and  velvets,  make  mj  tire — 
sun  dreaming,  'mid  their  gleaming, 
Of  your  loom  beside  the  fire ; 

Twining  still  my  childish  fingers 
In  your  spindle's  snowy  sheath  ;— 
h !  the  linen  of  your  spinning, 
Hid  no  heart-ache  underneath. 

What  though  in  my  casket  flashing, 
Pearls  might  grace  a  queen's  bandeau, 

''ild  flowers  growing  in  the  mowing 
Never  scarred  my  forehead  so. 

For  I  bought  them  with  a  heart,  Mj^ 

bel,— 
Paid  Ambition's  cruel  price ! 
ow  the  haunting  demon,  taunting, 
Mocks  me  with  the  sacrifice. 

Take  away  the  couch  and  (urdial, 
Let  the  gilt-caged  captive  pine ; 

^is  my  spirit  that  is  weariiid, 
Can  you  give  it  rest  and  wine  ?" 


How  Bale  6u  i^t 

Wbere.  *nuc  jiki 
Lies  the  ssrt  ^ 
Or  dessisTf 
;  Somewhere  u»t  mlit*  itv:, 
:     WefiiE^fn 

Some  ooTen  jiick»-  U^  jsaa  vm. 
\     That  ikut  for  u*  I 


J  ^ 


■H 


Somewhert  tiFrp-  .jsv  *,> 

My  cartdw  luqssi  lamt^ 
Which  T*-i  n  f ttit,-  i^f^^  y i,^ . ^^ 

Tixii(*r<«Ctiiwiitfi  M'l 

lu  fia^na' 
Penidttiof:  fi  iiiur 


Yitnnm, 


WW.  w.  »«,^  ^^^  ^^ 

^•^^^  *  ^-^  •«*  «*^  .hlM.k, 

AiJ  •?>•:  ut^,  minij  li\t\k}KiL 

T.Tl!*'*^*^  WnikmuHj  Mot, 

l-ik^^ZZ/*^  '*'**    ^***'y  words, 
■■^  •*•  fcMH'i  tiHhirr  cboiA 


554 


HELEN    L.    BOSTWICK. 


[M 


Somewhere  Uiere  id  a  npot  of  ground, 

Now,  haply,  green  and  blooming, 
W hereon,  ere  long,  a  withered  mound 

Shall  ririe  from  mj  entombing. 
Somewhere  there  waits  a  vacant  stone, 

I'ereliance  unhewn,  unbroken, 
To  be  my  name  and  age  a  June, 

And  eruve  Lovers  teartul  token. 

Somewhere  there  is  a  robe  more  bright 

Than  this  my  spirit  wearetii, 
No  sin-s|>ot  stams  its  |)eHect  white, 

Nor  shade  of  grief  it  beareth. 
Soniewhert — I  know  not — none  can  see 

lieyond  Death's  hurrying  river 
My  Fatlier  keep^  a  place  for  me 

Safe  in  His  house — forever! 


LULIE. 

FuoM  a  meadow  sloping  West, 
Full  of  April  lambs  at  play, 

Came  one,  whiter  than  the  rest, 
Fi-om  its  merry  mates  away. 

Came  b<\side  me — so  I  <1  reamed. 
And  I  marked  its  litled  eye 

ll:i(l  a  pleading  look,  that  seemed 
Full  of  strange  humanity ; 

As  I  bowed  whh  ftuid  can»ss 

Toward  the  lonely  hinibkiu  strayed 

(P'ull  of  painful  tenderness 
Half  I  felt,  and  half  afraid)  ; 

lio.oes  on  its  uwk  I  found. 

Ant]  I  knew  them  dro<iping  there, 
For  the  rtises  that  I  liouiid 

Y«*ster-moni  in  Lu lie's  hair. 

Tr«'inbliiig,  ealling  LulieV  name 
With  u  faint  :u]<i  feaiiul  call, 

AVokf  I  ilini,  a>  morning's  tiame 
Kiiullcd  on  uiy  elianibrr  wall. 


Streamed  acroM  a  pillow 
Quivered  o*er  a  little 

IVhere  the  chestnut  hair 
Long,  and  soft,  and 


*^ 


Lulic  lay  beside  me  there. 
And  the  rose-ligfat  a«  I 

Bathed  the  dimpled 
Tinged  the  velvet 


But  the  raurs  sweet 

Stirred  not,  ope*d  not,  aa  I  wcfi 
And  I  knew  my  lamb  had  goat 

With  the  Shepheid  whOe  I  dipi 

Lulie*s  grave  is  green  and  gij. 
But  our  fields  are  bare  and  eaH; 

Who  would  cadi  my  faunb  away 
From  the  shelter  of  the  Fold? 


WITHIN  THE  Um. 

God  gave  me  many  a  goodly  gift; 

A  sense  to  feel,  an  eye  to  knov 
AH  forms  of  Beauly*  that  iqdiA 

The  soul  from  things 


lie  gave  me  ready  brain  to 
Hands  apt  enough  its  will  lo 

A  heart  of  reverent 
Kindred,  and 


Whos(>  voices  cheered  the 
A  cross  to  kneel  by,  and  the 

Of  little  feet,  whose  wandering  np 
Kept  mine  from  many  a 


And  midst  these 

Of  those  who  could  be 
As  angels  breathe  the  word  J 

lie  gave  me  two  or  threeu 

No  more !  Ah,  I  could 
To  draw  Life's  nvi 


1860-60.] 


HELEN   L.    BOSTWICK. 


665 


From  every  wilding  way-side  fern, 
And  honeysuckle  cup. 

l^ot  but  I  blest  them — ^bade  them  bless ; 

But  if  to  me  they  never  brought 
That  vital  balm  of  perfectness, 

The  sustenance  I  sought ; 

If  oil  I  pined  for  that  which  seemed 

Free  as  the  air  to  all  beside, 
And  held  for  Fate  wliat  others  deemed 

Indifference,  or  Pride ; 

What  marvel,  that  when,  thirsty-lipped, 
I  came  where  i-oyal  roses  grew, 

I  claimed  them  for  my  own,  and  sipped 
Their  winy  sweets  like  dew. 

It  was  my  right :  for  life,  for  growth 
In  all  life's  purest,  most  divine ; 

The  need  was  on  me :  choice,  God  knoweth, 
Was  not  the  flower's  nor  mine. 

And  yet,  in  grasping  all,  I  erred — 
Not  all  were  germs  of  godlike  birth ; 

In  some,  the  heavenly  ichor  stirred ; 
In  some,  mere  sap  of  earth. 

Row  soon  these  languished  on  the  stem, 
Your  thought  must  needs  respond  (for  I 

Speak  harshlier  of  the  dead  than  them), 
And  thus  have  answered  why 

C  cannot  bend  me  at  your  pride. 

More  than  I  wound  me  with  your  scorn; 

EVhat  care  I  that  my  rose  that  died, 
Had  e'er  so  sharp  a  thorn? 

Died  ?     Nay,  not  as  the  world  calls  dead ; 

How  many  a  proper  flower  has  bloomed 
Cn  trimmed  and  cultured  garden  bed, 

Tintless,  and  unperfumed! 

A.nd  thus  my  rose  of  friendship  lives, 
And  buds  and  blooms  its  wasting  hour ; 

^nd  common  boon  of  smiling  gives 
To  common  sun  and  shower. 


Pleasant — ^yet  not  a  thing  to  choose. 
As  ere  the  unkindly  beak  of  Doubt 

Let  the  sweet  odor-spirit  loose, 
And  bled  the  color  out 

I  pray,  as  I  have  ever  prayed, 

"  God  bless  thee,"  with  no  backward  will, 
The  lake,  with  all  its  lilies  dead, 

Reflects  the  green  boughs  stilL 

I  pray,  as  I  have  ever  prayed — 

^  Christ,  fill   these   needy  hearts  from 
thine!" 

On  lakes  that  mourn  their  lilies  dead, 
The  holy  stars  still  shine ! 


LITTLE  DANDELION. 

Little  Bud  Dandelion 

Hears  from  her  nest — 
"  Merry-heart,  starry-eye, 

Wake  from  your  rest  I" 
Wide  ope  the  emeral  lids ; 

Robins  above,^- 
Wise  little  Dandelion 

Smiles  at  his  love. 

Cold  lie  the  daisy  banks. 

Clad  but  in  green, 
Where  in  the  Mays  agone. 

Bright  hues  were  seen. 
Wild  pinks  are  slumbering, 

Violets  delay — 
True  little  Dandelion 

Greeteth  the  May. 

Meek  little  Dandelion 

Groweth  more  &ir. 
Till  dries  the  amber  dew 

Out  from  her  hair. 
High  rides  the  thirsty  sun. 

Fiercely  and  high, — 
Faint  little  Dandelion 

Closeth  her  eye  I 


556 


HKLEN    L.    BOSTWICK. 


[UM 


Dead  little  Dandelion 

In  her  white  shrood, 
Heareth  the  Angel-breeze 

Call  from  the  cloud. 
Tiny  plumes  fluttering 

Make  no  delay, 
Little  winged  Dandelion 

Soareth  away. 


PEACE. 

The  sweet  face  is  turned  to  the  pillow. 
And  the  white  hands  loosely  lie : 

Oh,  beautiful,  placid  angel. 
It  cannot  be  hard  to  die ! 

The  tress  has  not  stirred  from  her  fore- 
head. 

And  the  jessamine  leaves  are  in  sight 
On  her  bosom^ — just  as  I  left  them 

In  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Ere  I  kissed  the  out-going  spirit, 
As  it  passed  in  a  gentle  sigh  :«- 

It  could  give  me  no  word  of  meanings 
It  could  kiss  me  no  reply ; 

But  as  I  felt  the  lips  redder  and  warmer 
Than  they  had  been  hours  before, 

Kre  the  fire  that  had  dropped  from  the 
altar. 
Had  crept  to  the  temple  door. 

Let  the  meek  face  lean  to  the  pillow, 

And  the  hands  unfolded  lie : 
Oh,  beautiful,  placid  angel« 

It  cannot  be  hard  to  die  I 


WHITE  AND  RBDl 


The  grain  grows  in  mi  my 

The  roi>e-iree  benda  down  fron  dboi 
One  bears  the  white  flower  d  mjDm 

And  the  other  it  criflMOQ  with  Lm 


I  will  labor  all  day  in  waj 
In  the  drowse  of  the  hwthhi 

I  will  look  for  no  tempdng 
I  will  list  for  no  rimlecTs 


alune  m  the  lm 


I  will  watch— oh,  nerer  a 

At  the  cradle  of  iiuioea 
Shall  be  &ithful  as  I  wiD  bo  §MM, 

My  Utde  field  safely  to 

How  my  sickle  shall 

I  will  gather  and 
For  the  winter  that 

The  winter  that  stanratk  tka 

But  oh  I  when  each  wotk-4ay  is 
How  blessed  the  rest  I  aUI 

How  the  tendrik  will  toni  to 
How  the  brien  will  woonl  if  Ip! 

I  shall  sit  with  my  romtm    mj  nm^ 
And  draw  from  the  sweeteBSS  «f  f 

They  will  crowd  their  eool  ^pa  tooy 
head; 
I  shall  feel  in  the  daik 


I  shall  know  if  they 
They  longed  fbr  my 

For  my  pretty 
And  a  doad  had 

Lean  in,  tasseled  grain. 
Bend  downward, 

Clothe  my  life  with  the 
And  the 


GEORGE  YORK  WELBORN. 


George  York  Welborn  was  bom  in  Mount  Vernon,  Indiana,  April  twenty- 
sinth,  1827.  He  descended  from  a  respectable  family  of  North  Carolina,  which 
emigrated  to  the  West  during  the  war  of  1812.  His  father,  Jesse  Yoik  Welbom, 
3>hied  the  army  of  the  South,  and,  after  the  battle  of  New  Orleans,  settled  in  Mount 
Temon,  where  he  long  continued  a  worthy  associate  of  the  sturdy  pioneers  who  im- 
^mrted  vigor  and  manly  growth  to  the  early  settlement  of  the  West 

At  an  early  age,  George  entered  the  common  school,  where  his  rapid  progress  won 
for  him  the  encomiums  of  his  teacher.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  we  find  him  a  student 
in  the  law  office  of  A.  P.  Hovey,  but  fearing  that  his  education  would  not  admit 
of  his  mastering  the  great  principles  of  the  legal  profession,  he  entered  the  semi- 
nary of  his  native  place,  preparatory  to  a  regular  course  in  college.  In  1849  he 
entered  the  freshman  class  of  Asbury  University,  at  Greencastle,  Indiana,  and  at  once 
took  rank  as  one  of  the  most  zealous  of  his  class,  and  maintained  by  his  excellence  of 
character  and  energy  of  purpose,  the  enviable  position  allotted  to  him  until  his  death. 
He  died  while  a  member  of  the  senior  class,  January  twenty-fifth,  1853,  aged  twenty- 
five  years. 

Had  he  lived  to  mature  manhood,  it  is  hazarding  but  little  to  say  that  he  would 
have  gained  distinction  among  men.  With  native  energy,  inherent  talent,  and  scho- 
lastic acquirements ;  vigorous  as  a  writer,  sprightly  in  conversation  and  winning  in 
manners ;  with  a  cheerful  disposition,  and  an  implicit  faith  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of 
the  right,  he  possessed  elements  that  fitted  him  to  win  upon  the  world's  &vor.  While 
a  boy,  he  saw  beauty  in  the  sweet  fern  and  wild  thyme,  and  in  manhood  the  way ward- 
ings  of  the  butterfly  were  still  beautiftiL  In  boyhood  he  was  filled  with  the  ideal, 
and  painted  the  canvas  all  over  with  radiant  pictures,  and  when  he  had  grown  to 
manhood,  the  ideal  was  united  with  the  real,  and  the  offspring  was  poetry.  In  col- 
lege he  was  loved  by  his  fellow-students.  In  their  expression  of  condolence,  they  say, 
^  we  mourn  the  loss  of  a  companion,  friend,  and  brother."  He  was  esteemed  by  his 
professors.  One  of  them  says,  in  a  letter :  "  The  name  of  Greorge  Torit  Welbom  is 
associated  in  my  memory  with  all  that  is  manly,  and  noble,  and  good.  I  distinctly 
remember  what  taste  and  judgment  he  always  exhibited  in  rendering  the  Greek  and 
Latin  classics  into  English." 

Of  his  poetic  writings  we  have  but  a  single  remark  to  make.  The  manuscripts 
from  which  we  are  permitted  to  make  a  few  selections,  all  bear  dates  but  little  an- 
terior to  his  death,  which  indicate  that  the  spirit  of  song  had  but  recently  come  to 
him,  and  that  the  mantle  of  poesy  was  worthily  worn. 


(657) 


(lEUKGK    Y.    WELBOBN. 


TUB  CAl'TIVB  UOY, 
To  his  prison  window  creeping, 

Si*  tliut  Icintdy  i;u|ilivc  boy ; 
III-  liuii  lelt  a  nioiliiT  weeping, 

Wliu  ]sliall  know  11(1  fuiure  joyj 
Bill  in  saddc    nR|]iii<'li.>l>, 

Slit:  must  mnurn  liim  now  as  dead, 
Wlio  in  wild  and  wayward  lolly, 

To  the  katile-lield  lias  Hed. 

Iteiims  of  f!uld<.'n  sunli;!hl  streaming 

Through  the  gniti>i«  have  h^d  liim  (here ; 
Wlitic  liix  eyes  with  sadness  beaming, 

Tell  hiit  fpirit'B  wild  despair. 
Lonely  wceka  and  montti:i  have  bound  him 

Close  wtbin  these  prison  cells ; 
How  diKeaxe  and  hunger  Ibund  hini, 

Faded  beauty  plainly  (ells. 
Dark  brown  ringlets,  in  profusion, 

Cluster  round  liiii  marble  brow, 
Whieh  were  erst  a  wild  iutrusion, 

lliU  are  all  unheeded  now. 
He  is  dying,  slowly  dying. 

Soon  his  sorrows  will  be  o'er ; 
See  him  struggling,  wildly  trying 

To  look  out  on  enrth  once  more. 

He  liiis  reaehi^  that  spot,  and  gladness 

Drighiens  up  hi»  pallid  fare, 
Wliert-  so  lately  hrowling  sadness 

I^t'i  of  beauty  not  a  trace. 
Huik I  he  spi-uki'  like  one  whose  sorrow 

Human  sutf'rancc  had  surpassed. 
On  whose  son!  sluill  dawn  no  morrow, 

Itut  with  death'sliades  overcast : 

"Oil,  Ihuu  sun,  that  <li>st  awaken 
This  tiiir  moni.  nh  tctl  me  why, 

I,  so  loni-lr  and  fiir.-aken, 

Hen-  iimst  lanpiish.  here  must  die? 

Tell  inc,  fur  ilioii  ''•■■■si  rli'urly 
jVII  villi  worlil  lit'  I'ho'rfulnesd, 
:  dearly. 


Moi 


II  biiti' 


That  her  son,  bj  fbudneM  driTCB, 

May  rcium  to  her  agvin  f 
Will  licr  gentle  li«^ut  \m:  bro4c« 

With  the  saddest,  deepeM  w«^ 
When  tlime  words  are  kindly  ^<ka 

*  Willio  sleeps  in  Hexiea?' 
"No,  this  thought  will  Mntbe  mA« 

Whirh  may  thriU  hm  W^i^tw 
That  my  Sav  iinir.  4l««nM%Mkl% 

Stooped  to  lull  mj  taatm  ^biA 
To  my  heart-ilringa,  lone  aod  ri«« 

By  the  sins  of  ather  dajr^ 
Harmony  he  now  iias  I^tvo, 

And  attuned  to  sweeter  laj*. 
"  God  protect  ber,  stiCogthB^  mAl 

To  dispel  such  hiuer  grief. 

Trust  in  Him,  be'Il  fpn  nStf ; 
Could  I  sec  thee,  know  tbee  prank 

Could  I  hear  ihy  HnHiiiafi  TCSB^ 
This  dark  pH-on  •^'>uld  be  fitmmt. 

And  in  death  I  couU  rgoioe. 
~  And  my  sister,  gentle  bengl 

Wlx)  so  fondly  dung  to  m»t 
Sobbing  wildly  ma  If  aed^ 

My  unhappy  deftinj. 
Dost  thou  mourn  iiae?  4oal  Aw  hi 

Who  dlilst  plcttd  wilb  m*  ••  Mi^ 
Why  did  I  so  mdelj  kua  Am^ 

Then  so  wildly  bound  nw^y? 
"  Ol)  in  dreams  her  spirit  tagmi 

KoUhil  my  lunrly  priMO  bc^ 

And  I  feel  her  lovely  flngen 

Pressing  lightly  on  my  hmL 
on  I  fi-el  her  fond  cnream, 

And  her  tips  on  mhie  eaea  ■■•! 
But  awaking  'mid  ^atitmm, 

AH  my  visions  then  an  tfm^ 
'-  And  my  little  brother.  CtaSe! 

Who,  with  amu  about  ne  imhal, 
Held  me  till,  wtih  nmple  paricf. 

He  might  diangi-  tnr  waywui^at 
Oil,  my  dear,  devoted  bratheTt 

Weep  no  more,  bat  pitj  nel 


1850-60.] 


GEORGE    Y.    WELBORN. 


659 


Wlicre  will  you  e*er  find  another 
Who  will  love  so  tenderly  ? 

"  All  these  lovely  scenes  are  over, 

Naught  can  glad  my  heart  again, 
But  to  know  them,  I,  a  rover, 

Oft  have  hoped,  but  hoped  in  vain 
Death's  cold  hand  is  on  me,  mother, 

Sister  come,  my  lips  are  cold  I 
Come  still  closer,  closer  brother. 

Ere  on  lite  I  lose  my  hold. 

"  See  yon  mountain's  brow  is  teeming 

With  the  legions  of  the  skies  1 
Am  I  dying,  am  I  dreaming, 

Do  death's  shadows  dim  my  eyes  ? 
Hark !  I  hear  the  bugle  thrilling — 

See  the  stars  and  stripes  in  air ! 
Lo !  the  valleys  all  are  filling 

With  contending  armies  there. 

^  Rouse,  my  soul  I  I  am  not  dying ; 

Shake  off  death.     Awake !  awake  I 
List  the  death-shots  wildly  fiying ; 

The  contest  makes  my  prison  shake. 
Look,  oh  look !  our  foes  retire — 

See !  our  armies  sweep  the  plain ; 
They  are  coming,  coming  nigher — 

Soon  shall  I  be  free  again. 

"  They  are  here,  but  do  not  see  me ; 

See  them  madly  pressing  on — 
Stay,  my  comrades,  stay  and  free  me  I 

All  is  still ; — they're  gone,  they're  gone. 
Ah,  I'm  cold,  I'm  blind,  I  smother ; 

Death  is  in  my  gloomy  cell — 
Oh,  my  mother — sister — brother — 

Willie  dies — farewell,  farewell." 

Upward  to  those  shining  regions, 

Fitted  for  the  soul  above. 
He  has  gone,  and  angel-legions 

Now  escort  him  home  in  love. 
Freed  from  prison,  hunger,  sorrow — 

Loosened  from  this  dreary  sod — 
He  in  plentitude  shall  borrow 

Sweet  perfection  from  his  God. 


VOICE  OP  OTHER  DAYS, 

How  ofl  have  life's  unseen  events 

O'erturned  our  hopes  of  bliss, 
And  gathered  to  another  world 

The  friends  we  loved  in  this. 
And  even  now,  when  they  are  gone. 

Whom  fancy  ofl  portrays, 
Upon  the  soul  there  seems  to  roll 

The  Voice  of  Other  Days. 

We  love  to  join,  with  wild  delight, 

The  circles  of  the  young. 
And  yield  our  tribute  there  to  swell 

The  magic  of  the  tongue. 
But  ah  I  we  lose  our  mirthfulness, 

And  all  our  joy  decays. 
When  from  the  past  there  comes  at  last 

The  Voice  of  Other  Days. 

We  love  to  labor — ^labor  here, 

We  love  toil — toil  on, 
For  so  did  they,  who  now  from  earth 

To  their  rewards  have  gone. 
Yet  ofl  we  turn  aside  to  weep 

At  fate's  uncertain  ways. 
When  o'er  us  comes,  like  muffled  dromSy 

The  Voice  of  Other  Days. 

Our  friends  prove  false  and  oft  we  feel 

Desponding  and  alone, 
When  not  a  kindred  spirit  gives 

The  smile  we  love  to  own. 
But  ever  thus,  when  we  are  sad, 

And  gloom  around  ns  plays. 
To  cheer  us  then,  there  comes  again 

The  Voice  of  Other  Days. 

How  cold  this  world  to  us  appears, 

When  no  sweet  voice  is  heard. 
To  claim  our  triumphs  and  to  speak 

A  kind  approving  word  ? 
But  ah  I  when  all  we  are  below 

Stem  Death  in  ruin  lays, 
We'll  hear  once  more,  as  ofl  of  yore. 

The  Voice  of  Other  Days. 


LOUISE  ESTHER  VICEROY. 


Louise  Esther  Vickrot,  daughter  of  Edwin  A.  and  CofndiA  H.  Ykknj.i 
bom  at  Urbana,  Ohio,  January  second,  1827.  While  Louise  was  yet  a  Enfe  dd 
the  family  migrated  to  Fern  Dale,  Columbia  county,  Pennsylvania  whtta  thsj  | 
reside.  Being  one  of  twelve  children,  and  her  parents  not  aBneitf,  she  ytt  sni 
herself  so  well  of  her  share  of  the  means  of  improvement,  as  to  kave  bMSBC 
excellent  scholar ;  and  made  such  familiars  of  the  beauties  and  gnblimitiei  of  IM 
about  her,  as  to  have  strengthened  and  greatened  her  spirit  to  a 
mind  has  had  a  healthy  growth  among  the  wild  and  romantic 
Pennsylvania.  There  is  a  feel  of  mountains  in  it,  and  a  smad  of 
impresses  you  with  a  sense  of  reserved  power,  sufficient  fiir  much 
yet  achieved.  Her  genius  is  manifestly  cultivable  and  improvable, 
has  been  writing  now  only  about  eiglit  years,  it  is  true ;  but  UMtt  of 
weep  all  ''the  dews  o£  Castalie"  away  in  less  time— or  get 
neither.  But  she  lias  continually  developed  in  the  art  of 
productions  are  her  best  "Tlie  Spirit  Home"  and  ^8hadow«Light,* 
publications,  in  the  articles  of  dioice  rhetoric,  delicious  rhythm, 
tion,  surpass  any  thing  else  we  have  seen  from  her  pen,  and  are 
fever  of  genius.  But  i>oetry  with  her  is  evidently  an  art,  and  noC 
Not  that  she  is  an  unexpert  in  love,  by  any  means;  but  that  she 
tlian  Venus  on  the  mount,  Parnassus.  She  cuUivates  poetry  as  one  of  Ac  Bi 
stndieri — one  of  the  humanities ;  and  does  not  seem  to  regard  it  as  the 
ous  combustion  of  a  love-lorn  heart.  Indeed,  she  gives  lecturee  on 
Poets/'  and  proves  that  she  knows  liow  to  analyze  thoughts  and 

Miss  Vickroy's  present  home  is  Richmond,  Indiana.     Hor 
most  noble  and  womanly  one  of  teacher;  but  more  recently,  as  joaC  a 
adopted  that  of  IcotunT,  in  which  she  is  said  to  exceL     We  think 
predict  for  her  poetic  future,  excelsior. 


THE  SPIRIT  UOME. 

1  Tiior4;iiT,  I  knewnotif  awake  or  sleeping, 
1  sjiw  the  spint-honic  pn*jmr«d  for  me; 

III  :i  ili'cp  lort»si  of  majestic  palm-trees 
It  rose  ;  no  artist*s  dream  of  ecstasy 


Might  ever  pictovi 
tions 
And  )>eauteoiu  mijantim  w%  wm  ■>! 
I  tell 
In  mortal  words  of  its 
Its  lilies  puTOy  its 


(660) 


!>(>-60.] 


LOUISE    ESTHER    VICKROY. 


661 


nd  all  bright  flowers  that  bloomed  about 

its  pathways, 
With  dew  and  sunlight  garnishing  their 

bloom, 
nd  gentle  winds,  that  sighed,  and  laughed, 

and  lingered 
Amid  the  incense  of  its  sweet  perfume. 

nd  through  bright  bowers  lovely  birds 

went  singing. 
And  built  about  the  nests  with  sweet 

home  love ; 
nd  butterflies  sailed  by  on  painted  pinions, 
Creatures  the  earth's  fair  creatures  far 

above. 

ut  oh,  my  home  within  this  world  of  rap- 
ture I 
My  home,  was  it  a  palace  or  a  cot  ? 
may  not  say ;  I  know  there  was  no  beauty, 
No  charm,  no  luxury  that  it  had  not. 

he  w^alls  were  crystal,  and  the  floors 
seemed  marble. 

Yet  soft  as  rose-leaves  where  my  foot- 
steps fell ; 

8  lattice  curtains  were  bright  braided 
sunbeams ; 

Its  rafters  overhead — O,  strange  to  tell ! — 

^ere  golden  wires,  through  which,  with 

gentle  swaying, 
Came  ever  new  and  thrilling  melodies, 
ow  lulling  to  repose,  and  now  impelling 
The  spirit  dreams  to  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise, 

ar  o'er  that  world  of  most  supernal  beauty. 
Into  the  airy  regions  still  above, 
'en  to  the  glory  of  the  heaven  of  heavens ; 
Then  nestled  softly  near,  like  sighs  of  love. 

canopy  of  azure  arched  it  over, 
Where  silvery  stars  and  one  pale  crescent 

gleamed, 
Landing  tlie   charm  of  night,   without  its 

liorror, 
To    the     subduing    light    that   inward 

streamed. 


Then  voices  soft  were  whispering  gently  to 
me: 
"Thy  better  angels  planned  this  home 
for  thee 
When  thou  didst  listen  to  their  holy  teach- 
ings, 
And  nobly  walk  the  ways  they  beckoned 
thee. 

And  ever  as  some  new  truth  thrills  thy 
bosom, 
Or  when  thy  hands  some  gentle   deed 
shall  do, 
Some  fairer  flower  here  for  thee  will  blos- 
som, 
Some    brighter    charm  will  these  be 
added  to. 

And  when  thou  walkest  Learning's  paths 
unfaltering, 
A  softer  light  shall  round  these  walls  be 
flung, 
Some  niche  receive  a  yet  more  beauteous 
statue, 
Some   fairer  painting  on  the  walls  be 
hung." 

The  whitest  angel  hands  with  mine  were 
clasping. 
And  angel  faces  smiled  sweet  smiles  on 
me; 
Wh'en  harsh  and  sudden  came  an  earthly 
summons. 
That  called  me  thence  but  for  Eternity. 

That  home  is  mine  where  nevermore  for- 
ever 
Can  any  voice  my  spirit  back  recall ; 
Nor  discord    follow   there,  nor    shadow 
darken. 
Nor  frost  nor  mildew  on  its  flowers  fall. 

Nay,  tell  me  not  'twas  only  Fancy's  vision ; 

I  will  believe  my  Father's  angels  fair 
Build  such  bright  mansions  for  the  earth- 
worn  pilgrim ; 

I  will  believe  such  home  awaits  me  there. 


36 


t)i 


LOUISE    ESTHKK    VICKROY. 


V< 


I 


And  the  sunset  on  that  ev^D 
Setimed  the  gulden  gale  of  braver 
All  so  cIoudleM  and  so  lorelr,  w^ 
storm  liud  posted  awaj ; 
So  the  tempojitri  in  our 
B(;ating  down  Lite**  taireit 
Sometimes  make  our  hearu 
receive  a  heavenlj  raj. 


to 


THE  SL'MMER  STORM. 

WiiKN  the  sky's  deep  blue  grew  deeper, 
And  I  he  sickle  of  the  reaper, 
Swingiit>;    midst   the  ri{H'iied  wheat-care, 
made  a  pleasant  Hash  and  soun<I, 
Rose  a  cloud  that  soon  oVrshaded 
All  the  scene,  while  quickly  faded 
From  the  landscape  all  the  beauty  by  the 
sunshine  shed  around. 

Queenly  rose  and  lily  saintly 

First  began  to  waver  faintly. 

And  the  tn»mbling  oak-leaves  whispered  of 

the  tem|>est  drawing  near; 

While  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  river 

Sent  through  every  heart  a  shiver, 

For  all  nature  seemed  o*erburdcncd  with  a  Si^eming  afar  like  the  worftdf  of  Ej^L 

wonder  and  a  tear.  Yet  near  as  their  beanu  on  a  nlk,cWr  ■ 

I  And  sweet  as  the  smile  of  a  Ion  4eif 
Then  the  lightning's  vivid  flashes,  I 

With  the  thun<ler's  wilder  cj-a^hes,  Xot  bright  like  the  hopes  of  oar  cUfc 

In  a  strange,  territic  splendor  clothed  the ;  hours, 

ovenirching  sky ;  ;  Xor  wearing  the  colon  of  jotfh'i  i 


SnADOW-UGRT. 

As  faint  as  the  gbort  of  a  melodr. 
Or  a  ros>e's  breath  that  will  not  die. 
Though  its  petals  blighted  and 


Shnink  the  woo<lbinc  in  her  bower, 
And  the  feni  bent  low  and  lower, 
"While  the  vine-leaves  cla<^])ed  each  other 


tlowers, 
Nor   the   rose-hued    tiiitiig*  of  orJ 

towers ; 
Anil  never  so  sad  at  the 
Of  the  young  heart's  buried 
Hut  softer  and  sa-eeter  there 


There  comes — there 

A  won! less  whisper,  and  o*er  mj 


with  a  clinging  syiniuithy. 

Now  the  winds  with  dismal  howling, 

And  the  heaven's  darker  scowling. 

For  a  while  seemed  all  t(K>  dreadful  for  the 

startled  earth  to  bear; 

TluMi,  while  floods  of  niin  descended,       ^,      ,  ^  ...  t^ 

,.       ,    .  ,  1111       Steals  a  sett  caresdy  but  1  kaovMli' 

Pnunh'St  tn*es  wrn*  torn  and  bended,     i  ,  - 

,,,.„    ,  ,   ,        1-     1-  I  .  1        1       .1     ^^r  whence,  or  why,  bat  I  oulr  «r 

lill  the  wiMKl.-*  Inire  leaHul  tokens  how  the  ,_  ,         '*  '     • 

,       ,  ,   ,  .,  .  That  ^omewbere,  somewliei 

dread  one  revelea  tliere. 

away, 

r>ni  the  storni-rl<»in]>'  -n.Men  breaking,    "A  dear  one  is  dreaming  of 

All  tlie  wild-binl  aritlienH  wukin-^,  ' 

Sit   til'.-   -iiininer  :rr   to  ip  inbliii;^  with  a  It  may  be  one  I  have  never 

>W' « tly  ron^eious  tiirill:  Or  one  with  whom  1  hare  (dkca  beta 

\\  iiil"  till'  .-iiowv  iiii-t  nt»-.r«»Iiii;,  liiii  wide  is  the  o«*ean  that  Tawasbrtv 

All'!  till-  -iinny  lii'lit  <Io\\ii-Mo\viiig,  lliit  at  la>t,  with  the  ocean's  ebb  sal  Ai 

Met  and  uuitW  a  rainlNiw  chaplet  Ibr  the  That  spirit  will  come  or  mine  w3 fa 


dark  bn>w  of  the  hill. 


1 


We  will  he 


ler  ibr  aj«,I 


CAROLINE   MYER. 


One  of  the  schoolmistresses  of  Ohio,  who  should  hold  a  creditable  place  among 
the  poets  of  the  West,  is  Caroline  Myer,  of  Waynesville,  Warren  county.  She  was 
born  near  Waynesville,  on  the  seventh  of  January,  1827.  Her  father,  in  early  life 
a  school-teacher,  but  in  middle  age  a  farmer,  lives  now  at  the  old  homestead.  With- 
out opportunities  for  education  higher  or  more  liberal  than  could  be  afforded  her  at  a 
district  school.  Miss  Myer  determined  to  become  a  teacher.  Indefatigable  industry, 
the  outgrowth  of  an  intelligent,  healthful  and  resolute  spirit,  has  enabled  her  to 
acquire  a  valuable  reputation  as  a  schoolmistress,  and,  meantime,  to  contribute  poems 
to  the  leading  literary  papers  and  periodicals  of  the  West,  which  have  made  her  name 
agreeably  familiar  in  many  hundreds  of  homes. 


THE  SHADOW-LAND  OF  THE  HEART. 

Out-looking  to  the  "  great  To  Be," 
Upon  a  care-wrought  wall  we  stand ; 

Yet  oft  we  leave  Reality 

To  wander  in  this  Shadow-Land. 


Sweet  fays  and  specters  grim  abid 
Here  ever  dwells  a  mystic  band ; 

^nd  O !  what  mocking  phantoms  glide 
Above  the  heart's  weird  Shadow-Land ! 

The  shadows  strange  I  some  bum  or  freeze 
The  blasted  soul  with  deadly  blight — 

Some  soothe  like  pleasant  shade  of  trees. 
When  noonday  beams  are  fiercely  bright 

"We  rove  throughout  the  lengthened  range. 
And  many  a  seraph  form  upstarts ; 

Xik('  lightning  swift;  their  places  change. 
Yet  not  one  shadow  e'er  departs. 

Here — there — the  same!  they  fall  again 
When  Morning's  lily  lids  are  wet 

With  tears  the  !Niglit  has  wept — and  when 
Young  Even's  robe  with  gems  is  set. 


Love  waves  o'er  all  his  magic  wand — 
Hate  holds  a  cursed  dominion  here— 

And  Sorrow  stalks  with  muffled  band 
Upon  the  hurried  steps  of  Fear. 

Each  youthful  Hope  is  imaged  fair, 
Each  dark-browed  Doubt  in  sullen  guise, 

And  darker  still,  each  mute  Despair 
That  ever  closed  dull,  leaden  eyes. 

Cold  mists  around  this  Shadow-Land 

Are  rank  with  Guilt's  own  poison  breath. 
And  sweetest  airs  that  ever  fanned 

A  saintly  brow  in  joyous  death, 
Blow  over  green  ambrosial  isles ; 

And  hoarse,  sepulchral  voices  shake 
The  mounts  where  golden  sunshine  smiles, 

And  music-tones  wild  raptures  wake ! 

And  noble  deeds  and  lofty  thought 
Are  burning  here  on  azure  scroll ; 

The  hero  sees  what  once  he  wrought. 
While  I  repass  the  distant  goal, 

Which  steady  chained  my  ardent  gaze. 
When  pure,  unmingled  joy  was  mine ! 


(563) 


5G4 


CAROLINE    MYEK. 


[»« 


Still  here  the  Unattained  doth  blaze ! 
Ah !  here  the  Never  Won  may  8hine ! 


i  Or  blendins  of  the  sem  and 


This  going  up  and  down  the  hilL 


These  shadows  once  were  real  things-      r^^^^  ^.,^       ^j,  ^  ^^ 

These   phantoms  st,-ange   were  hving  j,^  ^|,^j  ^  ^^^  ^^  ^^^ 


forms ; 

These  iloating  shapes,  with  airy  wings, 
Once  battled  with  the  thunder-storms ! 

When  far  beyond  the  fiery  track 

Of  orbs  immense,  entranced  we  soar, 

O !  will  the  spirit  wander  back 
To  walk  again  tlie  phantom  shore  ? 

Oh !  bright  and  haunted  picture  land ! 

Oh,  dreams  of  eld !    Oh,  visions  blessed ! 
What  wizard  king,  with  heavy  hand, 

Hath  laid  this  spell  of  wild  unrest  ? 

Sml  Shadow-huid !  I  visit  thee. 

And  long,  in  many  a  ]>ensive  hour. 
As  prisoned  captive,  to  be  free 

To  rise  above  the  futile  power 
Of  words  and  songs  of  mortal  birth ; 

For  vain  my  striving  to  invest 
Exj)ression— else  of  little  worth — 

With  aught  of  tliat  which  thrills  my 
breast, 
Wlufu  wandVing  in  this  cypress  shade. 

Or  standing  on  yon  sunny  shore, 
1  \Ui  the  low,  sweet  music  played 

By  hands  whose  earthly  toil  is  o*er. 


VV  AND  DOWN  THE  HILL. 

A  LiTTLK  work — a  little  play — 
A  lijitrriiig  oi\  .iloiig  the  way — 
riii-  is  the  sum  and  >ubstJinor  still 
( )r  ;:uiiig  up  and  down  thf  hill. 

And  yv{  'tis  more  than  fleeting  dream. 
Or  itllt*  i)oet*s  silly  thenif — 


Their  cheeks  are  brightt  their 
For  they  are  going  np  the 


And  shall  the  stormy  dood  tfam 
Make  them  foi^pet  the  stai 
Is  change,  and  blight,  and 
The  end  of  going  ap  the  hill? 


But  some  now  lying  ui  the 
With  myrtle  on  their  pale  hrovi 
E'en  while    thej  heard    the 

trill, 
Grew  tired  of  going  ap  the  UIL 

Alas,  for  lips  so  strange  and  eoU! 
Alas,  for  hearts  so  early  old ! 
That  eyes  are  stem,  and  voieei 
Tis  dreary  going  down  the  UIL 


But  here  the  sunbeamsT 
Falls  oVr  a  band  with  looks 
And  hope  and  faith  their  iipfaiti  I 
Though  they  are  going  down  tte 


And  here  is  one  who  walks 
From  all  the  crimson  ^an  of 
Her  luithway  leads  through 
For  she  is  going  down  the  hilL 


The  ro!<y  days  have  long 
Yet  joy  is  hers  that  caimot  die; 
Love  h  her  speech — ^loTe  is  her  w3L 
!  Though  she  is  going  down  the  ML 


<  )ii.  may  the  angels  erer 

i  And  soft  sweet  sounds  our 

Into  the  valley  dark  and  still^ 

The  end  of  going  down  Ae  VL 


WILLIAM   H.  LYTLE. 


William  H.  Lytle  was  bora  in  Cincinnati,  about  the  year  1828,  of  an  old  and 
Quch  respected  American  family.  His  great  grandfather,  William  Lytle,  held  a  cap- 
ain*s  commission  in  the  Pennsylvania  line  during  the  old  French  war,  and  emigrated 
o  Kentucky  in  the  year  1779.  His  grandfather,  William  Lytle,  was  famous  in  the 
sarly  border  warfare  of  the  West,  and  one  of  the  earliest  and  most  distinguished 
Honeers  of  Ohio.  He  was  the  intimate,  personal  friend  of  Andrew  Jackson,  under 
vhom,  when  President,  he  held  the  office  of  Surveyor  Greneral  of  Public  Lands. 

Robert  T.  Lytle,  the  father  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  was,  for  many  years,  a 
rery  influential  politician.  He  represented  the  Cincinnati  district  in  Congress,  and 
WBs  long  the  favorite  orator  of  the  Democracy  of  south-western  Ohio.  His  only  son, 
William,  was  educated  in  the  West,  and  his  fine  abilities  as  a  thinker,  speaker  and 
writer,  were  early  the  subject  of  remark.  After  the  completion  of  his  scholastic 
education,  he  studied  law  in  the  office  of  his  uncle,  £.  S.  Haines.  Upon  the  breaking 
out  of  the  Mexican  war,  the  military  spirit  which  had  distinguished  his  family,  showed 
itself  in  him.  He  volunteered,  was  elected  captain  of  company  L,  second  Regiment 
of  Ohio  Volunteers,  commanded  by  Colonel  Irvin  of  Lancaster,  and  served  with  dis- 
tinction during  the  war.  While  in  Mexico,  he  wrote  some  letters  which  were  much 
admired  for  their  poetic  tone  and  beautiful  description  of  tropical  scenery.  At  the 
dose  of  the  war  he  returned  to  the  practice  of  the  law,  but  was  soon  elected  a  mem- 
ber of  the  first  Ohio  Legislature  under  the  present  Constitution  of  that  State.  He 
did  not  speak  often  in  that  body,  but  when  he  did  address  the  House,  he  commanded 
its  attention  by  a  strain  of  eloquence  and  argument  not  quite  so  common  in  this  coun- 
try as  some  people  suppose.  In  1857  he  was  nominated  to  the  office  of  Lieutenf^it 
Goveraor  by  the  Democratic  party  of  Ohio.  The  ticket  was  beaten  by  a  few  hun- 
dred votes.  He  was  afterward  elected  Major  Greneral  of  the  First  Division  of  the 
Ohio  Militia,  embracing  within  its  limits  the  city  of  Cincinnati.  This  was  a  deserved 
honor,  for  in  disposition  and  bearing  he  is  the  beau  ideal  of  a  citizen  soldier ;  .yet,  con- 
sidering the  force  and  beauty  with  which  he  writes,  his  friends  are  constrained  to  think, 
that  even  in  his  soldierly  hands  "the  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword." 

From  the  poems  contributed  for  this  volume,  four  have  been  selected,  which  are 
low  first  published — "Sailing  on  the  Sea,"  "The  Brigand's  Song,"  "Jacqueline,"  and 
'  ]!klac  Donald's  Drummer." 


(565) 


an6 


WiLLIAM    II.  LYTLE. 


[K 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

1  AH  dying,  Egypt,  dying, 

Ebbs  the  crinisun  life-tide  fast, 
And  the  dark  Plutonian  tdiadowd 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast ; 
Let  thine  arm,  oh  Queen,  enfold  me, 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  car, 
Listen  to  the  great  heart  secrets 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore; 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me, 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Roman, 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  stilL 

Let  not  Caesar's  servile  minions 

Mark  the  lion  thus  laid  low ; 
'Twas  no  foeman's  arm  that  felled  him, 

'Twas  his  own  that  struck  the  blow — 
His  who,  pillowed  on  thy  bosom. 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray — 
His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 

Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  name  at  Rome, 
Wlu're  the  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home. 
Seek  her;  say  the  gods  bear  witness, 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings. 
That  her  bIoo<l,  with  mine  commingled. 

Yet  shall  mount  the  thrones  of  kings. 

An^l  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyytian  I 

(ilorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile, 
Li<rht  the  {Kith  to  stygian  hormrs 

With  the  splendors  of  thy  smile; 
(ii\<'  the  Cu*r*ar  crowns  and  arches. 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine, 
I  can  seorn  the  Miiatt's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 


I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying; 

Hark !  the  insulting  foemMi*s 
Th(?y  are  coming ;  quick,  mj  fiddbos 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah,  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  twd^ 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee. 

Cleopatni,  Borne,  fiuewaU! 


MACDONALD'S  DRDlOIEiL" 

A  DRCMXEK-BOT  from  fair  Hiji— ii 

By  love  oi  glory  lured. 
With  bold  MacdonaM'ft  stem 

Tlie  pains  of  war  endore^ 
And  now  amid  those  dissj 

That  girt  the  Splugen 
The  silent  oolumna  struggled 

And  he  marched  at  their 


Then  in  those  regions^  oold  and 

W^ith  endless  winter  ean*6. 
The  Alpine  storm  arose,  and  so 

And  forth  in  fuiy  bar^t — 
Burst  forth  on  the  deroC«ad 

Ambition's  dauntless  bniodL 
That  thus  with  sword  and 

Old  Winter's  soUtude. 


Iaaei|n 


''Down!  down!  upon 

Cling  to  the  guns !  ibr  lo^ 
The  chamois  on  this  sfippeij 

Would  dread  yon  gulf 
So  sped  the  word  fmoi  Iraoi  Id 

And  veterans  to  the 
Bowed  low,  who  ne'er  in 

To  aught  in  foeman*s 


But  hark !  what  horror  swells  As 
Beware,  oh  sons  of  Fmnes! 


•9m  IlMwItoy'B 

ihjUmnhal 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    H.   LYTLE. 


667 


Beware  the  avalanche  whose  home 
Is  'mid  these  mountain  haunts. 

Yon  distant  thunder — *tis  its  voice ! 
The  bravest  held  his  breath, 

And  silently  a  prayer  put  up 
To  die  a  soldier's  death. 

And  near  and  nearer  with  a  roar, 

That  loud  and  louder  swelled, 
The  avalanche  down  glaciers  broad, 

Its  lightning  pathway  held ; 
And  through  the  shivering  ranks  it  crashed, 

And  then  with  one  vast  stride. 
Swept  down  the  gulf,  till  far  below 

Its  muttering  thunders  died. 

In  vain  Italia's  sunny  plains 

And  reeling  vines  invite, 
Full  many  a  soldier  found  his  shroud, 

'Mid  Alpine  snows  that  night ; 
And  he,  his  comrades'  pride  and  boast, 

The  lad  from  fair  Bayonne  ; 
The  roll  was  called,  no  voice  replied, 

The  drummer-boy  was  gone. 

Gone !  gone !  but  hark  from  the  abyss. 

What  sounds  so  faintly  come, 
Amid  the  pauses  of  the  storm  ? 

It  is — it  is — the  dnim ; 
He  lives,  he  beats  for  aid,  he  sounds 

The  old  familiar  call. 
That  to  the  batteries'  smoking  throat 

Hud  brought  his  comrades  alL 

Over  the  dizzy  verge  that  eve, 

Witii  straining  eyes  they  peered, 
And  heard  the  rattling  of  the  drum. 

In  accents  strange  and  weird; 
The  notes  would  cease,  and  then  again 

Would  sound — again  to  fail. 
Until  no  more  their  fainting  moan 

Came  wafted  on  the  gale. 

And  when  red  Wagram's  fight  was  fought. 

And  the  big  war  was  o'er, 
A  dark -haired  matron  in  Bayonne 

Stood  watching  by  her  door ; 


Stood  watching,  praying,  many  an  hour. 
Till  hair  and  heart  grew  gray. 

For  the  bright-eyed  boy  who,  'mid  the  Alps, 
Was  sleeping  far  away. 

And  still  belated  peasants  tell. 

How,  near  that  Alpine  height, 
They  hear  a  drum  roll  loud  and  clear, 

On  many  a  storm-vexed  nighL 
This  story  of  the  olden  time 

With  sad  eyes  they  repeat, 
And  whisper  by  whose  ghostly  hands 

The  spirit-drum  is  beat 


THE  VOLUNTEERS. 

The  Volunteers  !  the  Volunteers  I 
I  dream,  as  in  the  by-gone  years, 
I  hear  again  their  stirring  cheers, 

And  see  their  banners  shine. 
What  time  the  yet  unconquered  North 
Poured  to  the  wars  her  legions  forth. 
For  many  a  wrong  to  strike  a  blow 
With  mailed  hand  at  Mexico. 

The  Volunteers !  ah,  where  are  they 
Who  bade  the  hostile  surges  stay, 
When  the  black  forts  of  Monterey 
Frowned  on  their  dauntless  line  ; 
When  undismayed  amid  the  shock 
Of  war,  like  Cerro  Gordo's  rock. 
They  stood,  or  rushed  more  madly  on, 
Than  tropic  tempest  o'er  San  Juan. 

On  Angostura's  crowded  field. 

Their  shattered  columns  scorned  to  yield. 

And  wildly  yet  defiance  pealed 

Their  flashing  batteries'  throats ; 
And  echoed  then  the  rifle's  crack, 
As  deadly  as  when  on  the  track 
Of  flying  foe,  of  yore,  its  voice 
Bade  Orleans'  dark-eyed  girls  rejoice. 


otiH 


WILLIAM    11.  LYTLE. 


[IK 


lilciit  with  the  roiir  of  giins  uiid  l><)iiib:!, 
How  (rnindly  fn)m  the  dim  po^^t  cr)me3 
The  n)ll  of  their  victorious  drums, 

Tlieir  bugles*  joyous  notes, 
When  over  AIexico*s  proud  towers. 
And  the  fair  viil ley's  storie<l  bowers, 
Fit  recompense  of  toil  And  sears, 
In  triumph  waved  their  flag  of  stars. 

Ah,  romrades,  of  your  own  tried  troop. 
Whose  honor  ne'er  to  shame  might  stoop. 
Of  lion  heart,  and  eagle  swoop. 

Hut  you  alone  remain ; 
On  all  the  rest  has  fallen  the  hush 
Of  death;  the  men  whose  battle  rush 
Wild  wild  as  sun-loosed  torrents'  flow 
From  Orizaba's  crest  of  snow. 

The  Volunteers!  the  Volunteers! 

God  send  us  peace,  through  all  our  years ; 

But  if  the  cloud  of  war  appears, 

Well  see  them  once  again. 
From  broad  Ohio's  )>eaeeful  side. 
From  where  the  ]\laumee  pours  its  tide ; 
From  storm-hL<thed  Erie's  wint'ry  shore. 
Shall  spring  the  Volunteers  once  more. 


POPOCATAPETL. 

Talk  peak,  afar 
[     mids  thy  white  pinnacUya  single  star, 

AVIiil«*  sharply  on   the  deep  blue  sky  thy 
'  snows 

'         In  deathlike  calm  rej)o>e. 

I 

The  ni«rhtinjrale 
Through  '*Mini  F lores  *  bowt^rs  repeats 

her  tale. 
Ami  every  ro-^e  its  pi *rfumed  censer  swings 
AViih  Vfsper  oirerings. 

liut  not  f«)r  th«*e, 
Diademed  kiiijr,  thi<  h>v«-lKini  minstrelsv. 


Nor  yet  the  tropic  galet  thai  fvuh  \ 
TliroUgh  these  biesied  vafei  bdw 

Around  thy  form 
Hover  the   mid-air  fieiidi»  the  li{h 

warm, 
Thunder,  and  bj  the  driTing  honuB 
In  wrecks  thy  pines  are  faun. 

Deep  in  thy  heart 
Bum  on  vast  fires,  struggling  to  mi 
Their  prison  walls,  and  then  m  wn 
hurled 
Blazing  upon  the  world. 


In  vain  conspire 
Against  thy  majesty  tempeili 
The  elemental  wars  of  mrinf 
Serene,  thou  laugh'at  to 


Calm  art  thou  now 
As  when  the  Aztec,  od  thine 
Gazed  on  some  eve  like  this 
shore, 
Where  lives  his  name  no 


fi 
Un 


And  thou  hast 
Glitter  in  dark  defiles,  the 
Of  hinees,  and  hast  heard  the 
Of  Castile's  chivalxj. 

And  yet  again 
I  last  se<'n  strange  bannen 

the  main, 
When  from  his  eyrie 
forth, 
The  ea;;le  of  the  North. 


aoared  to  c 


Yet,  at  thy  feet. 
While  mlling  on,  the  tides  of 
Thou  art,  oh  mountain,  on  Chj 

throne, 
Of  all,  unehanged 


Tyi>e  of  a  power 
Supn'me,  thy  Holemn 


.] 


WILLIAM   H.   LYTLE. 


569 


to   the   nations   of  the  Almighty 
Word 
ch  at  thy  birth  was  stirred. 

rophet  sublime ! 

tn  the  morning's  wings  will  float  the 

chime 

•tial  horns ;  yet  'mid  the  din,  thy 

spell 

1  sway  me  still — farewelL 


BRIGAND'S  SONG. 

GH  the  Sierra's  wild  ravines 
M  grandee  of  Spain 
ing  with  his  dark-eyed  girls, 
all  his  gorgeous  train  ; 
9il  is  rich,  the  guard  is  weak, 
way  is  rough  and  long, 
le  your  lips  in  foaming  wine, 
chant  your  parting  song, 
rink,  brothers,  drink, 
Drink,  men,  and  away  ; 
iieu,  senoras,  in  your  smiles 
We'll  bask  before  the  day. 

Don  is  in  the  azure  skies, 
stars  are  by  her  side, 
;litter  in  her  path  of  light, 
maids  around  a  bride; 
ight  birds  let  us  sally  forth, 
re  booty  may  be  won  ; 
5t  the  poniard's  polished  edge, 
gird  your  carbines  on. 
rm,  brothers,  arm, 
Arm,  men,  and  away ; 
dieu,  senoras,  in  your  smiles 
Well  bask  before  the  day. 

il  to-night ;  for  since  the  world 
made,  in  times  of  old, 
y  has  been  for  coward  knaves, 
night  time  for  the  bold ; 
to  the  mule  bells*  distant  chime, 
lady,  grant  a  boon, 


That  ere  an  hour  the  ring  of  steel 
May  drown  their  jingling  tune. 
Mount,  brothers,  mount, 

Mount,  men,  and  away; 
Adieu,  senoras,  in  your  smile 
We'll  bask  before  the  day. 

To  horse  I     Hurra — with  thundering  press 

Over  the  plain  we  glide. 
Around  the  startled  hamlet's  edge 

And  up  the  mountain  side; 
With  waving  plumes  and  clanking  spurs, 

We  sweep  along  like  wind ; 
Our  beacon  on  the  rugged  cliff 
Is  flaming  far  behind. 
Bide,  brothers,  ride. 

Ride,  men,  and  away ; 
Adieu,  senoras,  in  your  smiles 
We'll  bask  before  the  day. 


SAILING  ON  THE  SEA. 

"  Where  is  my  heart's  dearest, 

Where  can  he  be  ?  " 
^  In  his  tall  ship.  Marguerite, 

Sailing  on  the  sea ; 
Sailing  with  a  gallant  crew, 

Winds  a-blowing  free  " — 
*'  Ah !  he  vowed  he  soon  would  come 

Home,  to  wed  with  me ! " 

**  Should  he  never.  Marguerite, 

Come  back  to  thee. 
You  can  find  another  love — 

I  your  love  will  be  ; 
Then  far  away  to  Indian  isles 

Let  us  quickly  flee. 
Pine  no  more  for  truant  hearts 

Sailing  on  the  sea." 

Flashed  her  eyes  in  anger. 

Proudly  turned  she 
From  the  muffled  cavalier, 

Bending  on  his  knee. 


WILLIAM    U.  LYTLE. 


Itut  uvtay  tit:i  (.-luak  lio  flung, 
'■.Marj,'u.fril(!,"  cri.-d  h<',— 

'Twiis  hi'i'  luvtT !  wliuiu  tihu  thought 
Suiliii"  on  Iliu  sea. 


ASACKWt-NTIC. 

Nav.  Truwu  nut  fiiin-st,  cliidc  no  more, 

Nor  bliiiiif  ilif  blushing  nine ; 
Its  tii-i-j-  kiss  is  itiiioci-rii, 

When  thrilU  the-  |mis<i  with  thine. 
Nu  li'iivf-  the  gohlut  in  my  hand, 

Hut  viiil  thy  elun.-i-!>  t)rii;ljt, 
Lt'dl  wtTiir  tui'i  bi'uuly  mingling 

Shun  111  wrci-li  my  m>u1  to-night. 

TIk-ii,  Mu,  to  the  ancient  rim 

In  ^(■ul|ltu^e(l  hi^iimy  run-, 
Buw  (luwn  ihy  nnl-iirrhi'il   11])  and  quaff 

Tiii^  wine  that  oonnucr.-  cart; 
Or  hrcathu  ujtun  the-  .-^hining  cup 

Till  lliui  its  [KTlunii'  be 
Swii-I  iis  Ihi;  M-int  ol  orange  groves, 

L-jHin  Hime  tropic  sea. 

An.l  while  lliy  fingers  idly  stmy, 

III  dLilliunt.'e  u'er  ihe  lyn-. 
Kill;:  lo  me,  l.m-.  ^onu■  ran-  oM  song 

riuii  gii>h>ii  t'liiin  he;irt  ol'  tin. — 
Song,  ^ueh  iis  tJivciiiii  i-balaiix  liyrniied. 

When  rn-.-,I..ijiV  lii-ld  was  won, 
iVnd  I'l-i^iil'i'  glon-  nilh  the   Uglit 

I'uih'il  ul  Muniihoii. 

Sing  till  the  ^lll)U^s  ol'  iiniied  men 

Hingbrav.iyouioiKtMnon-; 
Siji;;  lill  a^'iiin  the  gtio-t-wjiite  tenUs 

Shin.'  ou  the  imKiiilit  slioiv  ; 
l;i.l  tl^>nl  llieir  nielanehiily  graves 

Th.-  bi.i-i.'d  lii.i«-  lo  ^larl. 
I  ki..  «  <■,:■  niiiny  u  -i.iri.i  had  swept 

'I'll.-  di-w^th.i.s  iWiiii  my  li--art. 

SiiiL'  ih--  de.']i  iiiem..ri.>-  of  tl..'  JKi^t, 
My  -oiil  ~h;.ll    r..U.,W  thi-.', 


lu  boundless  dcpihi  re-«cbtriiig 
Tliy  glorious  niini^tnlsj ; 

And  as  the  wild  vibrstiofu  hang 
KnletterFi]  on  the  air, 

I'll  drink,  thy  white  Bmu  ronad  a 
The  wine  tliat  canquert  emrv. 


JACQUELINE.- 

ALMO!ii>-p.r>:D  Jacqueline  bedtoocd  l> 
As  our  troop  rodu  borne  frum  mam 

And  I  mvr  Gil  Pepe«'»  Itrow  fnw  4v 
While  hU  fitce  wemed  loagcr.  hj  h 

Whut  tare  I  for  the  Spwiiftnfa  m. 
His  huughty  Itp  and  glaae*«tfAn 
Whut  no  fit  lor  these  SooAmb  bvAl 
An  tlie  tempered  n]ge«  of  treemca'itMi 

.Stiy,  »hall  an  Alra'a  mercileaa  hw^ 
Their  IuumU  in  our  noblect  blood  mM 

And  then  with  :< -     '  r   -  ■  -,  «!■ 

Our  genii.-  N  .n^ 

lluilloliim  who  ^rAaS 

Up  with  your  banners  Knd  dowa  wiA 

ItfttiT  In'  whelmed  'neaib  oecaa  wm 
Than  live  like  t.-owanl*  the  Kvea  of  A 

IIuu;:hiy  Uil  I'em  mmj  then  bea«^ 

For  we  love  our  blue-ejcd  Uj^^t 

And  would  welcome  tbe  ahoek  ti  T« 

blad<-:< 

Wen-  the  price  but  a  lock  of  Adrf 

en  inirln. 

Hop-,  on  lirotlien,  tbe  <laj  ahall  ttma 

With  Haunting  of  banner  aad  nlii| 

\Vli.n  "William  the  SikM"  aUI  ■ 

J  And  seourge  theae  wolra  toArirba 


JAMES  PUMMILL. 


James  Pummill  was  born  in  Cincinnati,  December  twelfth,  1828.  He  received 
a  good  English  education,  and  then  learned  the  art  of  printing.  He  has  for  about  ten 
years  been  a  contributor  to  the  Ladies*  Repository  of  Cincinnati,  and  has  written 
frequently  for  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  New  York.  In  1846,  Mr.  Pummill 
printed  for  private  circulation,  at  Circle ville,  Ohio,  a  small  volume  of  poems  entitled 
**  Fruits  of  Leisure."  In  1852  he  published  a  little  book  of  "  Fugitive  Poems,"  in 
Cincinnati.  He  is  now  the  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Commercial^  published  at 
Aurora,  Indiana. 


EMBLEM  OF  PEACE. 

In  Ardenne  forest,  calm  and  free. 
Forever  to  a  shining  sea, 
A  river  flows  in  quietude— 
The  angel  of  the  wood  I 

No  tempest  ever  rends  its  calm ; 
But  peaceful  as  the  summer  balm. 
That  dwelleth  in  tlie  forest  ways. 
This  angel  river  strays. 

The  roses,  bending  o'er  its  side. 
Reflect  their  beauty  in  the  tide : — 
At  night,  between  some  leafy  space, 
The  Moon  beholds  her  face. 

And  flecking  dots  of  light  and  shade, 
By  forest  trees  and  sunshine  made, 
Dance  gladly  o*er  this  river  bright, 
When  flies  the  dewy  night 

And  through  the  long,  long  summer  day 
Tlie  robin  pours  its  soul  away 
In  music,  by  its  margin  fair. 
Rejoiced  to  linger  there  I 


Without  the  wood,  a  golden  sea, 
Where  sacred  Beauty  loves  to  be. 


Enclasps  within  its  fond  embrace 
This  stream  of  joyant  face. 

And  sparkling  ever  in  the  sun, 
From  rosy  morn  to  twilight  dun. 
The  river  murmurs  with  the  sea, 
A  holy  lullaby ! 

A  symbol  of  the  good  man's  life  I 
Exempt  from  gloom  and  cank'ring  strife. 
Thus  golden  glide  away  his  hours 
In  Life's  sequestered  bowers ! 

And  when  the  shade  of  Time  is  past, 
He  reaches  that  far  sea  at  last, 
To  whose  glad  waters  aye  are  given 
The  blissful  smiles  of  Heaven  I 


TO  MARY. 


How  sweetly  glows  the  red,  red  rose 
Upon  the  mountain's  peak ! 

But  O,  more  sweet  its  beauty  glows 
Upon  thy  cheek  I 


How  brightly  shine  the  stars  of  night 

Upon  the  summer  sky ! 
(571) 


572 


JAMKS    I'l'MMILL. 


[ll» 


But  brighter  beams  the  light  of  Love 
From  thy  elear  eye  I 

The  singing-bird  A  that  on  the  sprays 

Of  amorouH  Spring  njoiee. 
Do  not  so  thrill  the  human  bresist 

As  thy  sweet  voice ! 

Those  eyes,  those  eyes  of  melting  blue, 

They  steal  the  soul  away ! 
And  leave  to  lovers  but  a  mass 

Of  trembling  clay ! 

Those  lips,  tliat  seem  the  rosy  gates 

Of  iH*arly  Paradise, 
To  kiss  were  easiest  way  to  steal 

Into  the  skies. 

O,  niddy  stars,  forsake  your  realms  I 
Rose,  leave  the  mountain's  side ! 

Binls,  cease  your  songs  upon  the  sprays! 
Ye  are  outvied  I 


A  SUMMER  MOBNINO. 

SwKETLT  bloom  the  vernal  meadows 

In  the  morning  ray, 
Wiien  the  night  of  gloomy  shadows 

Silent  steals  away, 
And  the  dewy  verdure  glanceth 

On  the  new-bom  day. 

Lo  !  the  birds  arc  trilling,  trilling 

Sweet  songs  to  the  sun. 
As  h(»  oometh  oVr  the  hill-top, 

AV rapped  in  shadows  dun  ; 
And  the  streams  are  smiling  at  him — 

Smiling  as  they  run. 


See  the  |m1e,  thin  ckrads 
0*er  the  matcfalets  ikj : 

O,  with  what  a  dreamy  mocioa 
An;  they  imssing  by — 

Fading,  fading  into  etlier— 
See  I  they  melt — thej  die! 


Ah !  thou  still  and 

Lovely  as  thou  art. 
Full  of  holy  hope  and  beaolj, 

Soon  wilt  thou  depart. 
Leaving  ail  as  sad  and  loody 

As  my  beating  heart ! 


CONTENTMENT. 

Ofttimes  I  fling  me  on  a  noHj  Ul, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  aonie 

tree, 
And  li:$ten  to  the  hum  of 
bee, 
And  modest  melody  of  bird  and  A 
I  Serene  contentment  dwelleCh  i 

The  purest  spirit  of  mj  half  eril; 
And  Love  and  Joy  ■arroaad  me  ml 
spell ; 
And  Ho|>e,  the  daughter  of  the  dm 

year, 
Sings    music  to  me,  ^hfiting  al  A 

drear. 
O  liappy  fairies  of  mj  ■olitiidu  ! 
Com()anions  of  my  aileiil,  ajrlviB  ho 
I  would  tliat  Spring  with  her  yi 
band  of  flowers. 
And  you,  ye  liappy,  hemrt-deEghliivhi 
And  I,  might  ever  dwell  in  Ail  In 
haunted  wood ! 


JAMES  R.  BARRICK. 


James  Russell  Barrick — a  popular  contributor  to  the  LouiwiUe  Journal^ 
OrafianCs  Magazine^  Godey's  Ladffs  Booky  and  other  widely  circulated  periodicals — is 
an  influential  farmer  and  merchant  of  the  town  of  Glasgow,  Kentucky.  He  was  bom 
in  Barren  county  of  that  State,  on  the  ninth  day  of  April,  1829.  In  1859  Mr.  Bar- 
rick was  chosen  to  represent  the  legislative  district  in  which  he  resides ;  he  has,  there- 
Core,  exerted  influence  in  the  politics  as  well  as  the  poetry  of  Kentucky,  and  in  both 
is  entitled  to  honorable  consideration. 


ABSENT  FRIENDS. 

We  miss  their  pleasant  faces, 
We  miss  each  gentle  smile, 
That  were  ever  wont  to  greet  us 
With  a  loving  light  the  while ; 
We  miss  their  merry  voices 
In  the  halls  of  mirth  and  glee, 
We  miss  them  in  the  dear  old  haunts, 
Where  their  faces  used  to  be. 

We  go  out  in  the  morning. 

When  the  woods  delight  the  eye. 

And  we  gaze  out  on  the  beauty 

Of  the  smiling  earth  and  sky ; 

But  a  vacant  place  is  round  us. 

And  a  vacant  place  within, 

For  the  scenes  that  once  could  cheer  us 

Are  not  now  as  they  have  been. 

We  go  out  in  the  even, 
On  the  twilight  sky  to  gaze. 
When  the  shades  of  night  are  rising 
Softly  through  the  distant  haze, 
And  we  think  of  those  who  loved  us, 
When  our  days  were  young  and  fair, 
Yet  we  sigh  to  think  their  presence 
Vanished  like  a  form  of  air. 


We  feel  our  pleasures  fading, 
And  our  joys  declining  fast, 
As  the  shadow  of  the  future 
Dims  the  sunlight  of  the  past ; 
And  in  vain  we  look  to  nature 
For  the  light  of  other  years, 
When  our  hearts  are  brimmed  with  sad- 
ness. 
And  our  eyes  suffused  with  tears. 

But  in  dreams  we  see  their  faces 
Full  of  sunshine  as  before. 
And  their  eyes  as  bright  as  ever 
With  the  welcome  light  of  yore ; 
And  with  words  of  love  they  greet  us, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Till  we  feel  that  we  are  with  them, 
In  a  blessed  spirit  land. 


THE  FOREST  STREAM. 

In  a  low  and  ceaseless  murmur 
Gently  flows  the  forest  stream, 
Day  and  night  to  nature  chanting, 
Music  sweet  as  song  and  dream, 
In  the  mirrored  sky  revealing 
All  the  beauty  of  its  gleam. 


(673) 


574 


JAMES    R.   BAKRICIC. 


[1a5*4 


With  u  song  of  joy  and  gladnesd 
Doth  thft  littlf*  minstrt'l  sing ; 
And  ciwrh  passing  bwezo.  and  zophyr 
Wafts  its  echo  on  their  wing, 
Till  the  uir  around,  aliove  it, 
Swells  with  niuj^ic  niurinurin<'. 

Buhbling  onward  like  a  fountain, 
Honi  of  mcloily  and  song, 
Like  a  transient  gleam  of  beauty, 
Flows  the  silver  stntain  alon*; — 
Chanting  anthems  unto  nature — 
SIh^  to  whom  its  notes  Ixdong. 

Hastening  onward— on wanl  ever, 
Like  the  life  that  flows  in  me. 
As  a,  wave  uj)on  the  river. 
Hastening  onward  to  the  sea; 
As  a  ho{>e  the  hidden  future 
Stuinning  for  the  things  to  be. 

Summer  ntorms  may  o'er  it  gather. 
Winds  of  autumn  round  it  wail — 
Winter,  too,  its  bo<<om  ruf&e. 
With  its  iey  sh»et  and  hail; 
But  with  summer — autumn — winter, 
I>oth  its  steady  flow  prcvaiL 

Thus  life's  fountain  to  its  river 
In  a  winiling  cum'nt  flows, 
And  its  river  to  its  ocean 
In  a  ehanntd  dee[H*r  grows. 
Till  its  fountain — river— ocean, 
In  ettrrnity  repose. 


•ndkwi 


Tho'  spring  and  summer  have 

And  winter^ft  here  again. 
We  still  may  view  each  furore 

With  sense  unmixed  with 
For  in  our  h«*Arts  Mill  brighter 

The  only  flame  ihej  know. 
The  love  that  in  each  boson 

Just  bom  one  year  agou 


Our  hearts  were  linked  with 

Just  wove  one  year 
Like  waves  that  meet  on 

Then  back  in  union  flow  ; 
■  'Mid  w interns  gloom,  *mid 

We*ve  lived  unknown  to 
Yet  linked  have  been  with  ligfatwia^d 

Just  bom  one  jear 


No  changes  yet  have 

No  sorrows  vailed  our 
No  thunder  clouds  diuolTed  in 

Al>ove  our  Pafiidi«e  ; 
And  when  the  windi»  andft  wa< 

The  storms  and  tempests 
We*ll  turn  our  eyes  and 

To  view  one  year 


ONI-:  YKAR  Ar;(). 

A  sMii.K  i-i  Oil  thy  lips  to-night, 

A   inv  i-  in  thirn*  rvr-, 
Ar.l  iiri  ;iiv  liinw  tlnTi*  In-ain-i  u  li;j:hl 

Tf.Ml   with  no  "^lia'hjw  virs; 
I  liiiiik  .•;'  (l.t\  ^  tiiat  ^wii't  luivc  p:ist, 

( )t'  j.i«  :i>lin":  still  tlial  ll(»\V. 
Ami  ju>  -  that  liavf  no  >ornjws  csist, 

Tlioii:^li  horn  onr  v«*ar  airo. 


TO  A  POET. 

Tnr  heart  beat«  to  the 
pulse, 

>Thn>l>bing  with  life  thro*  all  the 
All  lovely  things  arc  imaged  oo  A 

'  Of  thy  heart's  jmgejt     on  thine  cj« 

iFloat'allthehnnnoniest 
I^)ve  is  to  thet^  as  dew  anto  dw 
As  li^rht  to  day,  as  sunshine  to  Ae 
Tin  h<in;r*s  Ii;;hl.  il^  hope  and  d 
It  i<  the  >pirit  nf  ihy  thoughts  an 
Th\  <>oiirs  deep  paa«iioo,  and  its 

I  Wfaves 

;Ar(.Mi[id  ihy  brow  a  diadem  oT 
As  I'rorn  thy  hcurt*i>  deep 

flow 
Its  gentle  streams  in  wavas  of 


ELIZABETH   ORPHA   HOYT. 


Elizabeth  Orpha,  fiflh  daughter  of  John  and  Mercj  Sampson,  is  a  native  of 
Athens,  Ohio.  Her  opportunities  for  early  education  were  but  few,  indeed ;  but  her 
thirst  for  knowledge,  her  energy  of  chai'acter,  and  her  lofty  purposes,  could  not  be 
repressed  by  any  combination  of  difficulties.  Genius  will  bum,  and  bum  till  it  blazes 
into  notice.  Among  the  young  gentlemen  of  Ohio  University,  Miss  Sampson  had 
many  to  appreciate  her  genius,  to  love  her  character,  and  to  encourage  her  ambition 
to  the  heights  of  literature.  What  they  learned  from  their  professors,  they  dropped 
upon  her  ears.  In  her  hands  they  placed  the  text-books  which  they  had  mastered. 
In  this  way  she  early  attained  an  unusual  degree  of  intellectual  culture  and  devel- 
opment. Though  naturally  most  fond  of  metaphysical  studies,  she  possessed  equal 
facility  in  the  acquisition  of  mathematical  truth  and  linguistic  lore.  Her  ability  to 
comprehend  Paley,  Butler,  logic  and  the  mathematics,  when  but  a  little  girl,  was  to 
the  writer  a  wonder.  She  wrote  true  poetry  from  a  mere  child.  Ere  fifteen  of  her 
summers  had  faded  into  autumn,  she  had  written  a  volume.  Many  judicious  critics 
urged  her  to  put  that  volume  before  the  public,  but  shrinking  modesty  kept  out  of 
sight  what  might  have  gladdened  and  soothed  many  a  fireside. 

Her  eyes  failed  her  about  this  time,  and  have  never  since  been  restored.  In  all 
her  studies  for  many  years,  she  has,  like  Prescott,  been  forced  to  rely  almost  solely  on 
her  fiiends. 

In  1854,  she  married  John  W.  Hoyt,  a  gentleman  of  talent  and  learning,  at 
that  time  a  Professor  in  a  medical  college  in  Cincinnati,  subsequently  Professor  in 
Antioch  College,  Ohio,  and  at  this  time  Secretary  of  the  Wisconsin  State  Agricultural 
Society,  and  editor  of  the  Wisconnn  Farmer,  Her  marriage,  besides  being  a  very 
happy  one,  especially  in  its  spiritual  relations,  gave  to  her  the  companionship  of  a 
superior  mind,  having  a  severe  classic  taste,  and  the  sympathy  of  a  generous  heart, 
possessing  remarkable  enthusiasm  of  nature. 

Since  the  removal  of  Mr.  Hoyt,  in  1857,  to  Wisconsin,  Mrs.  Hoyt  has  written 
more  than  for  many  previous  years.  Analytically  considered,  her  poems  give  evi- 
dence of  great  tenderness  of  feeling,  a  genuine  appreciation  of  the  beautiful,  and  an 
overflowing  sympathy  with  nature  and  humanity.  Philosophical  acumen,  vehement 
will  and  a  heroism  truly  womanly  are  never  deficient  in  her  poems  when  needed. 
Enlargement  of  heart,  elevation  of  character,  refinement  of  taste,  and  improvement 
in  morals,  cannot  fail  to  reward  the  reader  of  her  poetry.  Her  poems  for  children 
are  sini^ularlv  felicitous. 

No  complete  volume  of  Mrs.  Iloyt's  poems  has  yet  been  published,  but  several 
little  books  for  children,  from  her  pen,  have  been  successful.  We  trust  that  her 
friends  will,  ere  long,  be  gratified  with  a  volume  which  will  exhibit  her  varied  capac- 
ity for  metrical  composition. 

(676) 


i7C 


ELIZABETH    O.   HOTT. 


[» 


A  HVMN  OF  OLD  AGE. 

WiiKN  to  the  l/aiiquft  of  the  j^oul 
Lilt-'-i  latest  fruits  are  brought, 

Anr]  ^fathf-rt'd  in  n.'ful;;<'nt  whole, 
]t£>  adflrrd  £iun«-etd  wrought, 

What  ^rlorj'  resteth  on  his  head, 
Who:^?  lengthened  shadow  shows 

How  flinily  fur  life*>  cradle  bed 
I.-)  fiiim  it<  laj«t  re^Kise. 

There  come  no  more  the  pageantries 
That  thrringed  the  path  of  youth ; 

Pomp  of  meridian  glorie:*, 

Tliat  tempted  manhood's  truth ; 

Ami  th<'n*  no  more  the  burning  h&ste 
()\'  pa>i»ion*8  tn*iu'h('n»us  flsmie, 

AVith  conscious  virtu#'*s  bitter  waste, 
Ami  >elf-ac<*using  l)lame ; 

15ut  p<»j»ce,  inst<*ad,  and  joy  serene. 
As,  wrap|M^l  in  faith  sublime, 

lie  walks  with  calm  unfidtering  mien 
L'l)on  the  verge  of  time. 

TcniptatiouA  <*on4U(*rcd,  truth  achieved, 
Fui>t'h(MHl  and  fear  overthrown ; 

•Jii*ii«"i'  and  charity  n'trieve<l, 
To  larg«*  expi'rience  gn.»wn  ; 

All  iiidividinil  inti*ri*sts  merged 

III  iini verbal  claims 
Divlinlv  nmved.  and  (niwanl  nr*jed 

T«>  vMT  nobler  aims, 

ITr.  (Ill  tin-  H'mnant  of  his  days. 
With  wis*'  atrecti<iiis  cn)wned. 

Sit-.  rlijiMtiiiLT  «M'r  litW  p»^nlm  of  praise 
A;4aiii>t  the  outward  bound; 

Wli'M-  >t(-:idra«t  Hojn-  illumes  the  way, 
Ainl  l'':iifli.  with  tiprii  ryt-^, 

l5«IinliN  tlii'  d:iwiiiii;r  of  a  day 
Kl«  ncil  ill  tlir  >kie«. 


IlaiL  bappy  i  _e !  w! 

In  life's  last  pnrpliiig  feld. 
How  precioui  is  the 

Of  calmly  growing  olL 


ihf( 


OCTOB 

Not  Summer  now,  nor  Wb 
Come  walk  with  me  awhile 
The  Year  invites ; 
As  Autumn  holds  u^/w 
Iler  fe&^t  prepared ;  her 
The  heavcnd  with 
And  all  no  couiteonsy  fiur 
The  Season  and  the 

In  cheerful  leisure 
Oh,  who  would  miss  it  ? 
The  s^uns  that  rise,  the 
The  rustle  of  the  crimsoni^  hif; 
The  gush  and  murmur  of  the 
The  thoughts  we  think,  the 

dream, 
Thf>sc  M)utli-wind  days    so 

brief — 
Where  maDv-hued  on  wood  ani  ikf 
And  many -voiced  to  ear  and  cyi^ 

()<-to)»er  Mfis  the  leene 
Nay,  stands  apart  in  splendor 
Nature'.-  serene,  rrlf  rnnscinni 
As  when  the  mniL  fnmished  wiA  A 
That  men  call  good,  and 
No  pride  puts  on,  and 
But  fraininj;  ever,  :ilill  gives 
Si»  tlinuigh  the  months 
The  M(»on  of  Harvests  on  her 
The  fniitaiff*  of  the  roand 
Fnll-ri[K*n(*d  in  her 
With  ^ifui  replete,  i 

i*a*ising,  'tis  trae. 
And  Mtt'tly  whisperin|^ ''So 
]>ut  with  a  rc'trospect  that 
With  welU^amed  joy  life's  lildi4r 
Swif\-;;Iidinur  to  the  Weil  of  T!b^ 

So  fast  away  1 


ELIZABETH    O.    HOYT. 


677 


nd  does  Time  wait  ? 
r  stand  at  Autumn's  gate  ? 
)w  her  watch-fires  on  the  hills 
the  far  vales ;  the  woods  illume. 
len  radiance  floods  the  air ; 
ies  a  sudden  glory  wear ; 
mn  pomp  the  heavens  attend ; 
lent,  and  the  pageant's  o'er, 

robed  in  royalty  of  old, 
own,  in  purple  and  in  gold, 
Dnth  that  was,  and  is  no  more, 
more  I "     Our  senses  try  it, 
it  false  from  bloom  to  core ; 

the  festive  word  is  spoken, 
are  served,  and  bread  is  broken — 
we  meet  it  evermore, 
still,  our  souls  deny  it — 
's  sweetest  lesr^on  learning — 

footsteps,  homeward  turning, 
le  rains  of  dim  November, 
id  drear,  begin  to  fall : 
5  beauty,  we  remember ; 
he  fire,  and  shut  the  door ; 
est  of  all, 
ip  October  on  the  wall. 


But  this,  the  calm  and  self-6ustained  re- 
solve, 

A  higher  mark  to  set 

Let  heart  and  will  take  counsel  of  the 
days, 
To  lay  strong  hands  upon  whatever  fbe 
Would  lure  thy  soul  from  conscious  vir- 
tue's growth. 

And  from  thyself  to  know. 

In   all   thou   plannest,  give  thy   brother 
room  ; 
Be  his,  or  thine,  success,  have  thou  just 
pride ; 
Nor  fear   to   find   God's  providence   too 
small, 

If  ye  are  side  by  side. 


ODE  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR, 

me    that    made    no   haste,   and 
?d,  and  droned, 

3und  new  feet  wherewith  to  climb 
ears ; 

►'ho  will  go  whining  o'er  the  past, 
»in  thou  its  march  with  cheers. 

the  Old  unto  the  New  is  lost, 
not  lost  to   bloom  the   seed  of 


'  Past  unto  thy  Future  be, 
all  life's  coming  hours. 

ciry  failure   wliich    thy   memory 

Is, 

not  alone  the  hot  tears  of  regret ; 


Upon  the  front  of  every  noble  thought 

Not  dreaming  to  do,  but  doing  the  best — 
Set  thou  a  seal  to  make  that  thought  a 
tiling, 


And  find  in  labor^rest 


The  Present's  all  before  you,  where  to  be 
Brave  men  and  women  for  the  good  and 
true ; 
The  battle  of  the  world's  great  needs  is 
always  at  your  door — 
See  that  it  wants  not  you. 


SONG  OF  THE  REAPER. 

Men  call  me  a  Machine !     Fll  show  them 
What  a  Reaper  is,  and  owes  them — 
I,  the  timbered  from  the  forest ; 
I,  the  sinewed  from  the  mine ; 
Bom  at  last  of  lapsing  ages, 
I  will  show  myself  divine ; 
Show  myself  a  peer — 
And  the  hour  is  near — 


37 


r>7K 


ELIZAJJKTH    O.    HOTT. 


[M 


For  the  rustic  of  harvest  days  is  nigh, 
And  the  field  of  the  world  the  lea^t  I  will 
try. 

With  a  dauntless  front,  and  nerve  of  steel, 
Shoulders  to  bear,  but  never  feel ; 
With  a  breast- work  never  yielding, 
Arm  of  oak,  and  tooth  of  iron ; 
With  a  strength  that  never  falters, 
With  a  purpoftc  never  alters — 
Hands  off,  and  away. 
Ye  men  of  but  clay ! 
Who  comes  as   I   come   to  the   bearded 

grain, 
Tliat  luis  waited  me  long,  nor  waited  in 
vain  ? 

Glistening  dews  are  bright  before  me  ; 
Pomp  of  clouds  is  floating  o'er  me. 

As  I  Pi>eed  my  tireless  journey 

Where  the  acres  lie  unshorn, 

Will  be  cradled  in  my  bosom 

Ere  the  night  o'ertakes  the  mom — 
Ere  the  life-beat  stop 
In  the  flower  I  crop, 
Or  the  frighted  bird,  so  lately  its  guest. 
Comes  back  to  look  for  its  little  nest 

Then  lead  me  forth  where  the  fields  are 

white, 
And  come  in  your  pride  to  the  glorious 

sight, 
Where    I,   the    Reaper,  will    prove   my 

cliiim 
To    a    victor    crown     and    a     deathless 

iMum*. — 

Will  prove  my  birth 
To  the  sons  of  earth, 
Wli'-n  the  goMen  >heavi'!<  that  follow  my 

tread — 
With  the  Mess in;j  of  million? — arc  bending 

with  hri'ad, 
A>  I  jr<>  ri;^ht  on  in  my  mission  sublime, 
(ii villi;  nrst  unto  labor,  and  moments  to 

time  ! 


THE  TOWN  AND  FAUL 

The  Winter,  clothed  in  TMid  vli 
And  jeweled  robe  weren. 

Still  chiims  the  north-weii  ftr  kr 
And,  trembling,  holds  the 


The  people  of  a  thonuod 
The  rich,  the  poor,  and  thcj 

Upon  whose  path  a  ibrtnne 
That  has  no  brighter  daj« 


Arc  shivering  all  with  dread 
Because  the  o*emiIing 

Another  wisdom  hath  fbond 
Than  that  of  man  lor 


Only  the  fanner,  'neath 

By  hardy  toil  n 
Is  peace  of  mind  with 

Looks  out,  a  "^  God  be 


t« 


For  well  he  knows  the  piereimal 
The  wind,  the  hail,  the  tm, 

Will  give  him  back  a 
For  all  their  bitter 


Deep  in  the  snow-proCedel  ml 

Lies  the  abundant  gift— 

Waits  bat  the  season  and  his  lA 

Its  bounteous  arms  to  Bft. 

For  him  the  dewj  gmsMS  Be 

Beneath  the  prairie  saov. 

Will  wave  in  beautj  "nffh  thi  i^ 

\\  Len  gorgeoos  floncreu  g|iv. 

For  him  the  nuuze  will  lift  te  hai 

And  silken  in  the  san; 
Thf*  troMen  grains  will  Svc^  As|^4 

AVhen  w interns  worik  is 


With  beauty  touched,  and  Eft  ii 
The  tender  bod  nnlbU, 

Till  rosy  children 
The  apple,  pfauap 


}.] 


ELIZABETH    O.    HOYT. 


579 


le  the  earth  is  roej  round, 
Ue  mountain-tops  are  graj, 
rivulets  dance  unmeasured  sound, 

1  insect  bevies  play ; 

Bummer-time  is  green  and  gold, 
lie  autumn's  leaf  is  sere, 
mosses  gather  on  the  mould 
ere  nature  drops  a  tear ; 

winter-time  is  snowy  fair — 

2  this  unrivaled  mom — 

ose  who  can,  rejoice  them  there 
t  they  were  farmers  bom. 


THE  SISTERS— A  FABLR 

0  sisters,  on  a  pleasant  day. 
Tent  out  a-doing  good ; 
h  all  her  might  each  worked  away, 
nd  did  the  best  she  could. 
.  one  was  laughing  all  the  while, 
s  happy  as  a  song ; 
other  was  not  seen  to  smile 
he  whole  day  long — 
while,  at  each  good  deed  of  one, 
irds  sang,  and  roses  blew, 
jvery  thing  the  other  did 
Tasps  swarmed,  and  prickles  grew. 

se  sisters  two,  were  Love  and  Pride, 

nlike  in  heart  and  name  ; 

ugh  long  they  labored  side  by  side, 

heir  work  the  very  same. 

n  very  different  motives,  though ; 

ove,  from  good  will,  always, 

le  Pride — she  cared  for  nothing,  so 

he  won  a  world  of  praise. 

e  thought  of  others ;  how  to  make 

or  all  a  pleasant  way ; 

le  of  herself;  for  her  own  sake, 

f  what  the  world  would  say. 


The  path  of  Love  was  like  herself 
Of  joy  and  beauty  bom  ; 

The  path  of  Pride  was  like  henelf, 
A  trouble  and  a  thom. 


THIS  LITTLE  LIFE. 

A  LITTLE  bird,  on  a  little  tree. 

Is  singing  a  little  song ; 
While  a  little  sock,  for  my  little  boy, 

I  am  knitting  by  little  along. 

A  little  cramb  the  little  bird 

Its  little  birdie  feeds ; 
A  little  bread  and  a  little  milk 

My  little  baby  needs. 

Then  the  little  plans  for  these  little  ones 
With  a  little  care  are  made. 

And  the  little  bird  and  the  little  babe 
In  their  little  beds  are  laid. 

To  the  little  birdie's  little  nest 
Comes  a  little  stray  moonbeam ; 

To  my  little  babie's  little  rest 
A  little  shining  dream. 

A  little  night,  and  the  little  day 

Is  peeping  a  little  in, 
And  the  little  work  and  the  little  play 

Of  the  little  world  begin. 

A  little  while,  and  the  little  bird 

Is  singing  its  little  song ; 
A  little  while,  and  my  little  sock 

I  am  knitting  by  little  along. 

Then  the  little  crumbs  and  the  little  cares 

For  the  little  bird  and  boy, 
The  little  dreams  and  the  little  prayers 

The  little  day  employ — 


*g; 


Till,  little  by  little,  the  song  is  sun; 
And,  little  by  little,  the  stitches  strung ; 
And  the  little  bird  and  the  little  wife 
End,  little  by  little,  this  little  life. 


MARY  WILSON  BETT8 


Mart  E.  Wilcox,  born  ncrar  MarsviQe,  Kentut-kr,  abont  dw  JW  ISSQli 
l>)<i4.  one  of  the  mo-^t  pripular  of  the  voanger  wricei>  of  that  Stale.  la  ihr  ■ 
of  \ni}i  Alt  wa^  marri'-'l  to  Morgan  L.  Bettys,  a  joiujz  man  of  takat  aadcMa 
wlio  had  b<.f:n  one  of  the  publishers  and  e«litors  of  the  Capiial  VUif  Fmdt  of  OM 
Ohi'i,  and  who  watt  xhvn  an  editor  of  the  Dttruit  Time*,  On  llie 
ti?rnUrr.  18oi,  Mrs.  Betts  suddenly  died  of  congestion  of  the 
■»un-ived  her  only  a  few  weelcA. 

Mrs.  liettd  waA  dearly  beloved  bj  many  friends  in  Kentadtj, 
as  a  woman,  and  was  widely  admired  as  a  young  poet  wbo«e 
of  decidffi  exiM-Ih-nre.     In  a  touching  obituary  notiee,  the  editor  of  tke 
haid:   ^  I^iant  in  tlie  bluoin  of  youth,  she  beheld  the  dawn  of  a  bright 
recline  in  the  .til'jnt  cluunborof  an  early  grave.     Friendship  had 
with  ilH  olioiirest  wreathe.     Love  scattered  his  sweetest  bkMsonu  Im 
prepan;  her  for  i\w  purer  happiness  of  another  world." 


A  KKNTUCKIAN   KNECT^  TO  NONE  BUT 

All !  tyrant  forge  thy  chains  at  will — 

Nay !  gall  this  firsli  of  mine ; 
Yi^t,  thou^^ht  is  fnH*,  unfetter*d  still. 

And  will  not  yidd  to  thine. 
Take,  take  the  lift;  that  Heaven  gave, 

And  let  my  heart's  blood  stain  thy  sod; 
liiit  know  ye  not  K«'ntufky's  brave 

Will  kneel  to  none  but  (iod? 

Vou*ve  quenched  fdr  Freedom's  sunny 
lijjht, 

Hit  nmsic  tones  have  stilled ; 
And  with  a  deep  an<l  darkenM  blight, 

The  tru>tin(r  heart  hstn  iilFd ! 


'Ciiiniifl  rritt<>ii«l<>ii,  wm  of  Ji>Un  J.  rritwnilen,  TnltM 
'.iii>  S>iiiit<ir  fur  kciitui'k\ ,  ruiniiianiU-d  tht*  fllibuntrr' 
■  III  i»  tnk-iiiiri<t>iuon>at  Miina'ar  IUyaiiii.  AuKiintflftranth, 
iNil      ivuiiiivl  Ui  di'ath  by  lh««  (*ul«u  RUthorltkMi,  an4 
.•rliT<- 1  to  Im>  hlmt  on    tlif  i>Ut4'«nth,  thvjr  w«*ri;  all  tfu-, 
ij  iiKliil  ti>  kiii-i'l     t'tilnnfl  ('rittt'iiilfD  ^piiriHHl  the  cum-' 
iiiiiii-l  with  tluiir  wonlii :    " A  Kmtuekiaik  InueU  t*  mont 

but   lix'il." 

(  A80 


Then  do  yoa  think  that  I  «■ 
Where  such  aa  ye  haia  tali? 

Nay!   point  your  eold  mi 
steel, 
ni  kneel  to  none  bat  Ge4 


As  summer  breeaes  lightly 

rpon  a  qaiet  river. 
And  g(*ntly  on  its  sleeping 

The  moonbeanu  iolUy 
Sw(M*t  thoughts  of  hone 

When  goaded  with  the  ni; 
Yet,  the>e  cannot  naaMn  wm  ■ 

ril  kneel  to  none  hot  Ga4 


And  though  a  «ad  and 

Is  coldly  sweeping  by  t 
And  dreams  of  bliM 

Have  dimni*d  with 
Yt*t,  mine's  a  heart  on; 

Heap  on  my  bieart  Ae  cU; 
My  sosiring  sfMrit  aeons  Ay 

rU  kneel      aona  bat  Gei. 


) 


FLORUS  B.   PLIMPTON. 


Florus  Beardsley  Plimpton  was  bom  September  fourth,  1830,  in  Palmyra, 
Portage  county,  Ohio.  His  father,  Billings  O.  Plimpton,  removed  from  Connecticut 
in  the  early  part  of  the  century,  and  connected  himself  with  the  Pittsburg  Conference 
of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  retaining  an  itinerant  relation  to  it  until  the  Erie 
Conference  was  erected,  when  he  was  set  off  with  that  branch  of  the  itinerant  work, 
and  remains  one  of  the  few  original  members  of  that  body.  Shortly  after  entering 
upon  his  ministerial  labors  in  northern  Ohio,  he  married  Miss  Eliza  Merwin,  young- 
est daughter  of  one  of  the  early  settlers  of  the  Reserve;  and  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
was  the  third  son  of  their  union. 

Florus  enjoyed  the  advantages  of  a  common  school  and  academic  education,  re- 
maining on  his  father's  farm,  in  Hartford,  Trumbull  county,  till  seventeen  years  of 
age,  when  he  entered  on  his  collegiate  course  at  Allegheny  College,  Meadville,  Penn- 
sylvania, where  he  remained  three  years,  when  changes  in  the  domestic  affiurs  of  his 
father's  family  rendered  it  necessary  for  him  to  return  home.  He  did  not  resume  his 
^llegiate  course,  thus  abruptly  terminated,  but  in  the  spring  of  1851  connected  him- 
«lf  with  James  Dumars  in  the  publication  of  the  Western  Reserve  Transcript ^  at 
Varren,  Trumbull  county.  In  the  summer  of  1852  he  received  an  invitation  to  con- 
luct  a  Whig  Campaign  paper  in  Niles,  Berrien  county,  Michigan,  which  he  accepted. 
\j,  the  conclusion  of  the  Campaign,  disastrous  alike  to  his  political  hopes  and  the  party 
vith  which  he  was  identified,  he  returned  to  Ohio,  and  connected  himself  with  the 
^ortage  Whig,  then  conducted  by  John  S.  Herrick,  at  Ravenna,  Portage  county, 
during  his  residence  there  he  married  Miss  Cordelia  A.  Bushnell  of  Hartford,  Trum- 
bull county,  on  the  second  of  June,  1853,  and  in  the  following  spring  removed  to 
lllmira,  Chemung  county.  New  York,  where  he  was  engaged,  till  the  spring  of  1857, 
n  the  publication  of  the  Elmira  Daily  Republican^  and  a  weekly  campaign  paper 
Xk  1856.  In  1857  he  removed  to  Pittsburg,  Pennsylvania,  and  associated  himself 
vith  the  Daily  Dispatch^  of  which  he  is,  at  the  present  time,  one  of  the  editors. 

Mr.  Plimpton  has  contributed  to  various  newspapers  and  periodicals  in  the  East 
md  West :  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine^  Gode%fs  Lady^s  Booh,  Genius  of  the  Westj 
JVetr  York  Tribune,  and  Ohio  Stale  Journal;  but  for  three  or  four  years  has  confined 
:iis  labors  to  the  newspapers  with  which  he  has  been  associated.  He  has,  however, 
within  that  time,  published  but  a  few  poems.  Such  leisure  as  he  could  conmiand  for 
visits  from  the  Muse,  has  been  devoted  to  the  elaboration  of  a  poem  of  considerable 
^ope,  which  he  designs  for  a  volume  when  prudence  commends  a  collection  of  his 
poems. 

The  ballad,  '^  Lewis  Wetzel,"  which  concludes  the  selections  for  this  volume,  now 
Brst  appears  in  print. 

(681) 


582 


FLORL'S    B.    PLIMPTON. 


tw 


Their  mid-watch  belb  whQe 

taU  sleep— 
^Vbat  time,  'tis  said,  tlie  ehm 

revels  keep. 


THE  OAK. 

Gka^ndlt  apart  the  giant  monarch  stands, 

Ail  reverend  with  lichens,  looking  down 

A  green  declivity  on  pastoral  lands. 

And  hazy  church-spired  in  the  distant 
town. 

When  parcliing  suns  the  scented  fields  em- 
brown, 

And  all  the  waysides  choke  with  dust  and 
heat. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  his  regal  crown 

Fair  maids  and  lusty  youth  at  eve  re- 
tniat, 

To  dance  the  hours  away  with  lightly- 
twinkling  feet. 

When,  to  the  singing  of  the  early  birds, 
Spring  bursts  in  blossoms  from  the  south- 
em  sky. 
And  scornful  of   the    stall,  the    lowing 

herds 
In  pastures  green  delight  to  graze  and  lie ; 
When  milk-white  doves  to  mossy  gables 

fly- 
Heaven  filled  with  song,  earth  with  sweet 

utterings. 
And  .winds   through  odorous  vales  blow 

pleasantly. 
Its  tliousand  bouglis  seem  bursting  into 

wing», 
Silken  and  smooth,  and  green,  and  full  of 

fiutterings. 

Among  thick  drapery  of  green  its  nest 
The  dormouse  builds,  and  there  the  robins 

8iiig 
Till  Evening  sets  her  roses  in  the  west. 
On  topmost  boughs  tlie  chattering  squirrels 

swing, 
And  round  its  twigs  the  spiders  spin  and 

cling 
Thrir  ^atizy  nets ;  there  too   the  beetles  And  vniAi  the  thnndcn  of  the 

creep  floods 

Tu  liide  in  shaggy  cells,  where  wo<Kl-ticks'That  snow  their  white 

ring  I         ing  shore ; 


Here,  ancients  uij,   his    rayal  In 

stood; 
But  none  remains — the 
The  gracious  lord  of  the 
Tiie  hoary  moimrch  of  an  hciilMi  d 
Here,  when  the  aummei^a  ^oiy^ 

own. 
And  day  dims  dying  in  the 
The  angeb  oome  and  wake 

tone 
That  floats    annind    and  ffandlf  i 

there — 
A  worldleas  song  of  praise  fiwa  ■■ 

ing  lips  of  prajer. 

Or  when  capricious  AntmBB  dfn 

hues 
Crimson,  and  brown,  and  gol^ 

Lear, 
And  spangles  of  the 

dews 
Like  countleu   brilliants 

near 
The  gorgeous  state  he 

and  clear. 
The  subtle  arrows  of  quick 
With  luster  tip  the  lea 

sear. 
Then  seems  that  oak  th* 

night, 
A  splendor  of  weird  ^leDi^  a 

the  sight ! 


But  most  'tis  kingl]r 

woods 
With  gusty  winds  and 

roar, 


1850-60.] 


FLORUS    B.   PLIMPTON. 


683 


When  Winter  rages  on  the  lonely  moor, 
Yokes  the  swift  whirlwind  to  his  icy  car, 
And  in  Titanic  folds  the  heavens  o'er, 
Gather's  his  cloudy  banners  from  afar, 
And  marshals  with  shrill  blasts  the  ele- 
ments to  war. 

O  then  the  sound  of  the  entangled  wind 
Among   its    boughs,  is    like    the    stormy 

swell 
Of  organ-pipes  in  fretted  walls  confined. 
To  roll  through  arches  vast  and  die  in 

vault  and  cell. 
How  like  the  grand  old  monarch,  when 

the  feU 
And  pitiless  storm  seemed  with  the  world 

to  mock 
His  uncrowned  age — ^and  yet  how  strong 

and  well 
It  braved  the  storm  and  bore  the  tempest's 

shock. 
Firm  in  its  native  soil  as  Alpine  rock  to 

rock. 

And  well  I  love  that  oak  I  Not  those  that 
shade 

Thy  classic  slopes,  Mount  Ida ;  or  shake 
down 

Their  brown-hued  fruit,  from  gnarled  boles 
decayed, 

Beside  the  winding  Simois ;  or  crown 

The  horrid  steeps  where  ivied  castles 
frown, 

And  dark-eyed  bandits  bid  th'  imwary 
stand ; 

Are  regal  in  their  centuries  of  renown 

As  thou,  hale  oak,  whose  glories  thus  com- 
mand 

My  humble  song,  O  pride  of  all  our  moun- 
tain land ! 

Here  rest5  the  poor  wayfarer,  soiled  and 

wora, 
And  folds  his  hands  in  slumbers  soft  and 

deep ; 


Here  comes  the  widowed  soul  her  loss  to 
mourn, 

Counts  o'er  her  trysts,  and  counts  them 
but  to  weep ; 

Here  happy  lovers  blissftil  unions  keep. 

And  bending  age  its  vanished  youth  de- 
plores. 

Or  sighs  for  heaven's  sweet  rest,  life's 
gentlest  sleep. 

That  gives  youth  back  to  age,  the  lost  re- 
stores. 

And  brings  the  welcoming  hands  that  waft 
to  happier  shores. 

The  village  maid,  who  sings  among  the 

fields. 
In  wrinkled  sorrow  sighs  her  soul  away ; 
The   dimpled    babe   to  reverend    honors 

yields. 
And  patriarch  Faith  sees  calmly  dose  the 

day. 
Life  laughs — loves — dies;  afar  the  years 

convey 
On  cloudy  wings  the  pleasures  we  pursue, 
And    still    thou    piercest    the    repelling 

clay, 
And   lift'st  thy  regal   head  to   heaven's 

blue. 
Green  with  a  thousand  years  of  sunshine, 

rain,  and  dew. 

In  all  thy  varied  glory  thou  hast  been 
The  idol  of  my  boyhood,  and  the  pride 
Of   more    exacting    manhood;    now,    as 

then, 
I  love  to  lean  thy  moss-green  trunk  be- 
side, 
And  mingle,  with  the  voices  of  the  tide 
And  thy  strange  whisperings,  my  unstudied 

song, 
And   here   recall  the  dear  delights  who 

died 
Since   thy  great  alrms   grew  obstinately 

strong — 
But  whose  quick  feet  no  more  beneath  thy 
shade  shall  throng. 


584 


FLORUS    B.    PLIMPTON. 


[W 


THE  REFORMER. 

TiiR  streaniR  that  feed  the  thirsty  hiud 
(iive  largess  freely  as  they  flow, 

From  mountain  rivulets  expand 

And    strong-armed,   sweep    the    vales 
below; 

And  eddying  on  through  bay  and  bight, 
Tiirough  lonely  wild  and  lovely  lea, 

liy  seaq>ed  clifi*  and  stormy  height, 
In  mighty  rivers  reach  the  sea. 

So  shall  he  grow  who  gives  to  life 
High  purposes  and  lot\y  deeds, 

Who  sees  the  calm  above  the  strife 
Of  blinded  self  and  narrow  creeds. 

Oh,  large  of  heart !  oh,  nobly  great ! 

lie  scorns  the  thrall  of  s<.*et  and  clan, 
Shakes  otf  the  fetters  for<red  in  hate, 

And  claims  a  brotherhood  with  man. 

Dwarfed  ignorance  fills  the  world   with 
wail. 
Opinion  sneers  at  his  advance ; 
And  Error,  rusted  in  his  mail, 

Strides    forth    to    meet  liim,   lance   to 
lance. 

Mean,  pi^y  souls,  that  cringe  to  form 
And  fatten  on  the  dro{?s  of  time, 

Start  from  the  dust  in  their  alarm. 
And  prate  of  ra.«*hness,  trcaj^on,  crime. 

Law's  wrinkled,  cunninjr  advo<'atefl 
(jiiote  mummied  pn^eiMlrnts  and  rules. 

The  relics  of  barbaric  states 

The  maxims  of  nu^feval  s^'hools. 


Strong  in  his  porp     e. 

He  wrestles  with  the  doobti  of 
And  shakes  the  iron  thews  «f  wil^ 

As  oaks  arc  shaken  faj  the 


Invincible  in  God  and  Truth, 
To  smile  the  erron  of  hit 

He  gives  the  fiery  fbroe  of  jniHdK 
The  tempered  wudom  of  the 


lie  sees,  as  prophets  saw 

In  faith  and  vision  i 
The  coming  of  the  Morning  StSTp 

The  glory  of  the  hater 


His  faith,  outreachini^ 
Beholds,  beyond  the 

Of  present  time,  the  skiw 
Of  cycles  bringing 


He  hears  the  mightj  march  ef 
The  stately  steppings  of  the  fiei^ 

Wliere  glorious  in  the  son  and  wial, 
Their  blazoned  banners  yet  ihsB  hb 

Well  (nn  he  wait :  the  leed  that  fiei 
Hid  in  the  cold,  repalsiTe  ch^; 

Shall  burst  in  after  oenturies. 
And  spread  its  glories  to  ths  dsf. 


L 


For  him  the  tynmt':*  ;:uaitl  is  set. 
For  him  tlui  ln«;otV  fjij^»ts  fin*d, 

For  hiui  thi'  ]ii*ad>mairs  ux  is  whet, 

And   chains   arc   fur«;cd,   and   minions 
liinnL 


Well  nin  he  wait :  thongh 
And  martyred  blood,  with 
stri|>e, 

God  watches  through  the  ' 
And  quickens  when  the 


^lan^s    Imnds    maj    &i^    the 
rein 

Drop  from  his  nerreloH 
The  wheels  shall  thunder  on  the 

Rolled  by  the  lighining  ef  Us 


haiiri 


1850-60.] 


FLORUS    B.  PLIMPTON 


585 


SOUVENIRS. 

I. — l'knvot. 

As  sweetly  tranced  the  ravished  Floren- 
tine 
Tarried  'mid  pallid  gloom,  again  to  hear 
Cassella  warble  tuneful  to  his  ear, 
Thus  I,  a  Bacchant,  rosy  with  love's  wine, 
Drink   thy  words,  sweet,   forgetful    with 
what  haste 
Time's  winged  heel  beats  rearward  all 

the  hours. 
To  me  alike  all  seasons,  deeds  and  pow- 
ers. 
When  by  the  atmosphere  of  love  embraced, 
I  sit  sun-crowned,  and  as  a  god  elate, 
In  thy  dear  presence.     Let  the  great 

world  go. 
In  lowliest  meads  the  pansies  love  to 
grow, 
And  sweet  Content  was  bom  to  low  estate. 
Here  is  our  blessed  Egeria — let  us  stay : 
Where  love  has  fixed  the  heart,  no  charm 
can  lure  away. 

ir.— TELL  HER. 

O  river  Beautiful !  the  breezy  hills 
That   slope   their    green   declivities   to 

thee, 
In   purple   reaches   hide   my  life  from 
me. 
Go  then,  beyond  the  thunder  of  the  mills, 
And   wheels   that  churn  thy  waters  into 
foara, 
And  murmuring  softly  to  the  darling's 

ear, 
And  murmuring  sweetly  when  my  love 
shall  hear. 
Tell  how  I  miss  her  presence  in  our  home. 
Say  that  it  is  as  lonely  as  my  heart ; 
The  rooms  deserted ;  all  her  pet  birds 

mute ; 
The  sweet  geraniums  odorless  ;  the  flute 
Its  stops  untouched,  while  wondrous  gems 
of  art 


Lie  lusterless  as  diamonds  in  a  mine, 
To  kindle  in  her  smile  and  in  her  radiance 
shine. 

ni.— RETURN. 

Return — return !  nor  longer  stay  thy  feet. 
Where  rugged  hills  shut  in  the  peaceful 

dale. 
And  chattering  runnels  riot  through  the 
vale. 
And    lose  themselves  in  meadows  violet 

sweet 
Or  does  the  oriole  charm  thee ;  or  the  lark 
Lure  thee  to  green  fields,  where  the 

gurgling  brook 
Leaps  up  to  kiss  thy  feet,  the  while  we 
look 
For  thee  with  tearful  eyes  from  morn  till 

dark? 
O  winds,  that  blow  from  out  th'  inconstant 
west, 
0  birds,  that  eastward  wing  your  heaven- 
ly way. 
Tell  her  of  our  impatience — her  delay, 
And  woo  the  wanderer  to  her  humble  nest ; 
Come,  as  the  dove  that  folds  her  wings  in 

rest, 
When  holy  evening  sets  her  watch-star  in 
the  west 


THE  BEREAVED. 

Alas  I  for  those  who  mourn,  and  stand 
Like  watchers  by  a  rainy  sea, 
Who  wait  for  what  may  never  be, 

The  white  sails  striving  for  the  land. 

Their  prayers  are  sighs,  their  vows  are 
tears. 
For  sorrow  stayeth  all  the  night, 
And  sorrow  broodeth  in  the  light, 

And  casts  her  shadows  through  the  years. 


586 


FLOKUS   B.    PLIMPTON. 


[UM 


LEWIS  WETZEL/ 


I. 


Stout-hkarted  Lewis  Wetzel 
R(Kle  down  the  river  shore, 

The  wilderness  behind  him 
And  the  wilderness  before. 

He  rode  in  the  cool  of  morning, 
Humming  a  deur  old  tune, 

Into  the  heart  of  the  greenwood. 
Into  the  heart  of  June. 

lie  neeiis  no  guide  in  the  forest 
Mon*  than  the  hunter  bees ; 

Hit*  guides  are  the  eool  green  mosses 
To  the  northward  of  the  treesJ 

Nor  fears  he  the  foe  whose  footi»tep 
Is  light  as  the  summer  air — 

The  tomahawk  hangs  in  his  shirt-belt, 
And  the  scalpknife  glitters  there  I 

The  stealthy  AVyandots  tremble, 
And  s{>eak  his  name  with  fear, 

For  his  aim  is  sharp  and  deadly, 
And  his  rifle's  ring  is  clear. 

So,  pleasantly  nxle  he  onward, 
Pausing  to  hear  the  stn>ke 

Of  tiie  settler's  ax  in  the  forest, 
Or  the  crash  of  a  lulling  oak ; 

Pausing  at  times  to  gathiT 

Tlie  wild  fruit  overhead 
(For  in  this  nin'st  of  June  «lays 

The  servic**-lK*rries  were  ixmI)  ; 


•  L.>«Ih  Wi't/cl,  or  Wvtiivl.  wn  It  in  lo<lllIenMitly  niwlled, 
Mti*  n  *•  iiiij;ht\  bunUT  "  in  the  i»i«»ijr«T  Jay*  of  Western 
Vir::iin-i.  nf  wliifh  ht*  wan  a  iiatlve.  Many  tradltionjuy 
aiiii-l-il'  •  iif  111"  «-\trniirdiii.ir\  hAill  «ith  tiir  ritlo  an>yrt 
]  ri-<r^  111.  M  lint*  of  whir  h  httiv  Wrn  iiiilili:thpd.  An  in- 
I-tTli  '-r  "ki'ii  h  iif  hii«  lifo  lii  ^iTfii  in  I>()rtor  l>nddrid|{e'c 

'■  Ni  ■ 11  till*  >t  ttleniciit  :in>l  lniii:iu  W'»n  in  thf  W«t- 

««rii  |'ir(<  <if  \irKi»ia  aiiti  IN  hum  lv.iiii:i ; "  a  work  now 
iiiir  •  I  i-riiit.  hut.  a^i-li'  f'-iiiii  '\t*  Kpicul-iliTf  'll*i<fTt«tinna, 
aiiit'iu  th<-  iii<if>t  Taluahlf  riiiitrihutii)n:>  tu  the  hbtury  of 
tlii-  Wi't. 


And  as  he  jn^sped  tlie  Ibll 
To  bend  them  down 

The  dew  and  the  bfauhing 
Fell  like  an  April 


The  partridge  drums  on  the  dir 
The  croaking  coriij  €mw% 

The  blackbird  »ings  in  the 
And  the  robin  in  the  hnn 


And,  BR  they  chatter  and 

The  wild  bird 
<*  Do  not  harm  u^  good 

And  you  shall  hare  Inck 


seem  tosaj. 


So,  pleasantly  rode  he 

Till  the  shadows  marked  the  aos^ 
Into  the  leafy  greenwood. 

Into  the  heart  of  Ji 


n. 


Now  speed  thee  on,  good  Lewii^ 

For  the  sultry  sun 
The  hill-side  shadows 

And  the  eastern  skj  is 


Now  speed  thee  where  the  riicr 

Crce|>s  8k>w  in  the 
And  the  Iilii>#  nod  their 

By  the  margin  of  the  pooL 


He  crossed  the  silrer 
With  lU  chestnnt-eoraed 

And  the  fetlocks  of  hu  loan 
Were  wet  in  a  hundred  ifflk 

**  And  there,"  he 

*'The  alders 
Where  the  wild  stag 

And  her  young  &wn 


GnL^ping  his  tmstj  riflcp 
He  whistled  his  di^ 

Then  st notched  his  finger 
To  know  how  set  the 


1850-60.] 


FLORUS   B.    PLIMPTON. 


687 


O  steady  grew  the  strong  arm, 
And  the  hunter's  dark  eye  keen, 

As  he  saw  the  branching  antlers 
Through  the  alder  thickets  green. 

A  sharp,  clear  ring  through  the  green- 
wood, 

And  with  mighty  leap  and  bound, 
The  pride  of  the  western  forest 

Lay  bleeding  on  the  ground. 

Then  out  from  the  leafy  shadow 

A  stalwart  hunter  sprang, 
And  his  unsheathed  scalpknife  glittering 

Against  his  rifle  rang. 

^  And  who  are  you,"  quoth  Lewis, 
"That  come  'twixt  me  and  mine?" 

And  his  cheek  was  flushed  with  anger, 
As  a  Bacchant's  flushed  witli  wine. 

"  What  boots  that  to  thy  purpose?" 

The  stranger  hotly  said ; 
"  I  marked  the  prize  when  living. 

And  it  is  mine  when  dead." 

Then  their  sinewy  arms  were  grappled, 
And  they  wrestled  long  and  well, 

Till  stretched  along  the  greensward 
The  humbled  hunter  felL 

Upspringing  like  a  panther, 
In  pain  and  wrath  he  cried, 

"Though  your  arms  may  be  the  stronger. 
Our  rifles  shall  decide." 

"  Stay,  stranger,"  quoth  good  Lewis, 
"  The  chances  are  not  even  ; 

Who  challenges  my  rifle 

Should  be  ut  peace  with  heaven. 

"  Now  take  this  rod  of  alder. 
And  set  by  yonder  tree. 


A  hundred  yards  beyond  me. 
And  wait  you  there  and  see. 

"  For  he  who  dares  such  peril 
But  lightly  holds  his  breath ; 

May  his  unshrived  soul  be  ready 
To  welcome  sudden  death !" 

So  the  stranger  took  the  alder. 
And  wondering  stood  to  view. 

While  Wetzel's  aim  grew  steady, 
And  he  cut  the  rod  in  two. 

"  By  heaven ! "  the  stranger  shouted, 

"  One  only,  far  or  nigh, 
Hath  arms  like  the  lithe  young  ash-tree, 

Or  half  so  keen  an  eye ; 

And  that  is  Lewis  Wetzel:" 

Quoth  Lewis,  "  Here  he  stands ;" 

So  they  spoke  in  gentler  manner. 
And  clasped  their  friendly  hands. 

Then  talked,  the  mighty  hunters, 

Till  the  summer  dew  descends, 
And  they  who  met  as  foemen 

Rode  out  of  the  greenwood  friends- 
Rode  oat  of  the  leafy  greenwood 

As  rose  the  yellow  moon. 
And  the  purple  hills  lay  pleasantly 

In  the  softened  air  of  June. 


1  Ezperienoed  hunters,  it  li  well  known,  find  their  way 
through  pethless  forests  without  the  aid  of  »  compeae, 
guided  only  hy  the  mossei  and  Ueheu  which  an  jtartlal 
to  the  north  side  of  trees. 

I  It  was  a  custom  among  pioneer  hunters  (says  Dodd- 
ridge), when  nn  hunting  expeditions,  and  in  the  Tlcinity 
of  IkTorite  hunting  grounds,  to  thrust  the  IbreAnger  Into 
the  mouth,  and  when  heated,  to  hold  it  out  in  the  air. 
By  this  means  they  readily  detected  the  coarse  of  the 
wind. 


*  m%m   • 


ALVIN   ROBINSON. 


Alvin  Robinson,  a  native  of  Cortland  county,  New  ToA,  was 
of  May,  1830.  I  lis  father  was  a  fanner.  Alvin  enjoyed  good 
vantages,  and  then  wandering  westward  seeking  his  fortune,  spent 
California.  Returning  to  the  Pacific  States,  he  made  his  home  in 
and  is  now  the  editor  of  The  North-  Western  Home  JounutL 


bom  in  tie 


THE  HOUSEHOLD  SORROW.* 

A  HOUSEHOLD  sorrow  lies  on  my  heart, 
Heavy,  and  damp,  and  chill ! 

I  feel  the  point  of  the  fearful  dart 
That  wounds,  but  does  not  kilL 

The  flashing  orb  of  a  noble  mind 
Tiiat  shown  on  life's  bright  river. 

Has  ^unk,  a  darkened  moon,  behind 
The  hills  of  night  forever. 

I  watched  its  first  faint,  feeble  ray 
C I  learn  out  on  a  world  of  strife, 

And  gladly  saw  the  fountains  play 
Tiiat  measured  the  stream  of  life. 

I  knew  not  then  of  the  sword  of  fire 
Tiiul  over  my  path  would  move. 

And  probe  with  the  kt»enness  of  despair 
The  depth  of  a  father's  love. 

Under  the  vale  of  a  midnight  sky, 
On  the  morrowV  wint'ry  bars. 

To  the  pililrss  stars  I  send  my  cry — 
To  the  cold  and  pjissioiiless  stars  I 

1  call  witli  a  doubtful,  fitful  joy, 
That  baok  from  the  starry  plain, 

Tin*  \vand<'nng  mind  of  my  noble  boy 
Mav  (N>iiie  to  our  homu  a<r]iin. 


mikiflf 


SUMMER  ON  THE 

Ti8  summer  on  the  prairieiy 

While  their  stretching 
Cast  on  tlie  wild  and  wnnton 

Tiieir  ri<rhe8  of  perfii 
And    while  the 
shell, 

The  brown  lark  ponn  his 
The  broad  savannas  clap  their 

And  roll  their 


•  Written  on  uccMinn  of  thf  drmrnution  of  a  glded  mn.    . 

(5H8 


There's  a  white  cliff,  like  n 

Looking  down  apoB  a 
Wliere  the  gray  fox  sees  his  i 

Half  asleep  and  talf  i 
And  northward  pass  two 

Well  pouched  and 
Tluit  tell  of  isles  in  i 

And  the  shores  of  MexicOii 

As  my  faithful  Indian  pony 

GaUops  lightly  o*er  the 
The  startled  fawn  leaps  vp  i 

And  stalks  awaj  the  cnae; 
The  swonl-snipe  drdes 

And  screams  his 
And  the  red  wolf  ails  bf 
den. 

And  howls  to  die 
) 


if 


JOHN   HERBERT  A.  BONE. 


John  Herbert  A.  Bone  was  bom  in  1830,  at  Peurjm,  Cornwall,  England,  and  came 
to  this  oountry  in  1851.  Since  1857  he  has  been  the  associate  editor  of  the  Cleveland 
Daily  Herald^  and  out  of  a  genial  humor  and  an  inexhaustible  storehouse  of  ^  quaint 
and  curious  lore/'  has  enriched  the  columns  of  that  journal  with  many  pleasant  jeu- 
d'esprtts,  and  many  clever  and  entertaining  essays  on  "  the  fair,  the  old," — such  as 
*'  Christmas-Day,"  "  New- Year's  Eve,"  and  other  festive  anniversaries  evoke.  These 
have  been  every  where  read  and  copied  without  the  author's  name — ^a  matter  of 
regret  with  those  who  appreciate  Mr.  Bone's  wide  culture  and  fine  abilities. 

Mr.  Bone  first  became  known  to  the  people  of  the  West,  as  a  poet,  in  the  columns 
of  the  Pen  and  Pencily  a  weekly  magazine  of  sixteen  octavo  pages,  started  by  Wil- 
liam Wallace  Warden,  at  Cincinnati,  in  January,  1853.  It  was  an  interesting  maga- 
zine— having  a  corps  of  popular  contributors  and  editors  who  had  skill  in  news  and 
literary  paragraphs,  but  like  all  its  predecessors,  failed  to  secure  local  confidence  and 
pecuniary  support,  and  died  young — when  about  one  year  old. 

Mr.  Bone  has  contributed  to  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  Godetfs  Ladifs  Book, 
Peterson^s  Magazine,  Boston  Museum,  Tafikee  Blade,  and  many  other  periodicals  and 
newspapers.     His  verse  is  marked  by  coiTectness,  ease,  and  poetic  feeling. 


THE  TWO  TEMPLES. 


rang 


the  Minster 


Cheerful   and    loud 
peal. 

And  sweet  was  the  organ's  strain, 
As  baron  and  knight  stepped  forth  to  kneel 

On  the  floor  of  the  sacred  fane ; 
Tlie  priestly  robes  were  heavy  with  gold, 

And  the  blaze  of  the  altar  light 
Revealed,  in  many  a  silken  fold. 

Gems  like  the  stars  of  night. 

Huge  and  grand  was  the  sacred  pile, 
Like  a  forest  the  pillars  stood ; 

Wealth  and  power  hud  formed  the  style 
From  the  porch  to  the  holy  rood ; 

Quaint  were  the  carvings  overhead. 
Bright  was  the  storied  pane. 


Rich  were  the  blazonings  of  the  dead, 
Who  slept  'neath  the  sacred  fane. 

The  Minster  gray  was  a  noble  pile. 

Wealth  shone  on  the  altar-stone. 
And  many  who  knelt  in  the  vaulted  aisle 

As  warriors  brave  were  known ; 
The  organ  pealed  forth  its  harmony. 

And  the  incense  was  scattered  wide. 
And  He  who  taught  us  humility 

Was  worshiped  with  pomp  and  pride. 

Solemn  and  low  was  the  ocean  hymn. 
And  the  chant  of  the  forest  drear, 

As  the  traveler  knelt  in  the  evening  dim 
To  offer  his  humble  prater ; 

The  vaulted  roof  that  o'er  him  spread. 
Was  the  arching  azure  sky, 


(589) 


5m 


JOHN    H.   A.   BONE. 


[UH 


And  tlie  lamps  that  light  on  the  altar  shed 
Were  tlie  twinkling  stars  on  high. 

The  8(M*nted  flowers  their  incense  gave, 

The  sighing  breeze  was  the  bell. 
The  choristers  were  the  woods  and  wave, 

And  the  surf  as  it  rose  and  fell ; 
Th«'  daisied  turf  was  liis  jeweled  shrine 

Where  he  knelt  from  care  ajiart, 
Tlie  falling  dew  was  the  sacred  wine, 

And  the  priest  was  his  truthful  heart 

Years  have  passed,  and  a  mouldering  wall 

Stands  where  the  Minster  stood ; 
And  bnimbles  grow  and  reptiles  crawl 

'Kound  the  base  of  the  holy  rood  ; 
Fallen  are  pillar  and  fretted  arch. 

And  the  toad  leaves  its  noisome  slime 
On  the  pavement  crushed  'neath  the  heavy 
march 

Of  the  grim  destroyer,  Time. 

Gone  is  the  wealth  from  the  altar-stone, 

liotten  the  vestments  gay ; 
Dininied  forever  the  lamps  that  shone 

Near  the  shrines  by  night  and  day. 
Nan<rht  is  heanl  but  the  shrieking  owl, 

Or  the  distant  hunter's  horn ; — 
Lai<l  in  the  dust  is  casque  and  cowl, 

And  their  faith  is  a  thing  of  scorn. 


NEW-YEAR'S  EV& 


On  the  land  the  shrouding 
White,  and  ghazstlj,  and  dull ; 

An  icy  liand  on  the  waTe, 
Holding  it  silent  and  ttfll ; 

And  a  wailing  breath,  like  the  wmt 
Death, 
Creeping  over  the  hilL 

A  pallid  moon  aboTe, 

Set  in  a  star-gemmed  iky  ; 

Spectral  shapes  of  cloud 
Ilurridly  flitting  bj,. 

O'er  the  sheeted  snow  as  thej  swiftlfi 
JVIaking  gaunt  shadows  fly. 

The  Old  Year  totters  ferth 
With  weak,  uncertain  traed  t 

Bent  with  care  his  back. 
Bowed  with  sorrow  hit  keai^ 

As  he  totters  on  where  bdfafe  knit  pi 
The  yean  now  cold  and 


llis  path  is  amid  the  graveii 
And  specters  fill  the  air^^ 

Dim  shapes  of  perished  hopei^ 
W'eird  forms  of  shuddering 

And    more    ghastly    still,    so 
chill, 
Dread  shadows  of 


Lost  in  the  gloom  of  ni|^ 
Is  the  Old  Year  grsy  and 


But  the  daisied  turf  still  forms  a  shrine, 

And  the  skies  their  blue  arch  spread ; 
The  lamps  of  night  unfaded  shine, 

AihI  the  tlowers  their  incense  shed. 
The  w<nm1s  and  waves  raise  their  hymn  |  But  a  ruddy  tint  in  the 

Heralds  the  coming 

A<  tliov  niised  it  in  days  of  yore; — 
Many  tnnpirs  fidh  hut  Naturi**s  fane 

Kon-v«T  >tands  >r<"ure. 


And  the  sweet-Toioed 
tell 
Of  a  Year  that  is  newly 


belb  iMtii 


ANNA  RICKEY   ROBERTS. 


Anna  S.  Rickey,  one  of  the  poetical  contributors  of  the  Columbian  and  Great 
West,  in  1850  and  1851,  is  a  native  of  Cincinnati,  we  believe.  In  1851  her  poems 
were  collected  in  a  volume  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-eight  duodecimo  pages,  and 
published  at  Philade){)hia  by  Lindsay  and  Blakiston.  The  book,  which  was  embel- 
lished with  a  portrait  of  its  author,  was  entitled  "  Forest  Flowers  of  the  West." 

In  1852  Miss  Rickey  was  married  to  Mr.  Roberts  of  Philadelphia,  in  which  city 
she  now  resides. 


LA  BELLE  RIVIERR 

Beautiful  river  I  on  thy  placid  stream 

The  Indian's  light  canoe  is  seen  no  more. 
Gliding  as  swiftly  as  a  winged  dream, 

Parting  the  waters  with  his  flashing  oar : 
The   hills   slow  rising  from   each  wood- 
fringed  shore. 
Are  mirrored  in  thy  calm,  pellucid  wave. 
Whose  rippling  pours  a  requiem  as  it  rolls. 
In    softened   murmurs,  by  the  humble 
grave 
Of  that  brave,  hardy  band  who  sleep  un- 
known, 
Their  resting-place  unmarked  by  monu- 
mental stone. 

And  tliey,  the  rangers  of  the  broad  domain. 
Lords  of  the  forest,  hold  no  longer  sway ; 
Thy  native  children  come  not  back  again. 
All,  all  have  vanished,  like  the  dew, 
away ; 
Or,  like   the  summer  leaves  that  I  have 
toss'd 
TTpon  thy  sunlit  wave,  a  moment  seen 
Whirling  along  the  current  and  then  lost, 
Leaving  no  lingering  trace  of  what  hath 
been, 


No    mark    to  tell,  upon  life's  ceaseless 

river, 
That  they  have  passed  fix>m  its  dark  tide 

forever. 

Within  thy  noble  forest  now  is  heard 
The  sound  of  ringing  ax :  the  silence 
ne'er 
Was  broken,  save  by  the  sweet  wild  bird, 

Or  gentle  footfall  of  the  timid  deer, 
Before  the  bold,  undaunted  pioneer 

Had  sought  the  land  of  promise,  the  far 
West, 
And  made  thy  lonely  shore  his  dwelling- 
place, 
And  reared  a  home  within  its  fertile 
breast, 
And  filled  it  with  the  sounds  of  busy  life. 
With  all  its  cares,  its  pleasures,  and  its 
strife. 

Thy  hills  re-echo  to  the  cheerful  sound 
Of  pealing  church-bells,  and  the  merry 
hum  * 

Of  busy  hands  and  voices  ;  and  around 
Thy  shores  are  gathered  many  who  have 
come 
As  wanderers  seeking  for  a  place  of  rest, 
A  peaceful  home  upon  the  fertile  soil. 


(691) 


riU2 


ANNA    RICKEY    ROBERTS. 


[Ill»- 


AVh<'r«>  liilx>r  is  witli  plenty  ever  blesso<l,  !So  manj  a  mind,  like  tluU  calm  bkci 
AVticre  wealth  awaits  the  hanly  hands  be 

tliat  toil,  Deeper  than  the  lupmctieed  tyt  «• 

And    Fnjedom's   sun    with   soul-inspiring ;         deem, 

boam,  i  Iloldinf;  its  treasures  vale,  wbik  pm 


(iilds  the  fair  bosom  of  tliy  noble  stream. 


Its  li;rht  waves  dance  beneath  eke  a 
briglit  gleam ; 
But,  when  the  darkened 
The  wildneas  of  the 
strife. 
Undauntedly  the  fnarlcas 
To  battle  with  the  advene  rtooai  d\ 


A  SIMILE. 

As  a  smooth,  quiet  lake,  whose  cr}'stal 
•     wave 
Scnn'ft  ripples  with  the  passing  breeze, 

then  lies 

Alirroring   tlie   a/ure   of  the    summer 
skies, 
AVith  bosom  motionles^i  and  tnuiquil,  ssive 
Tiie  rii>pling  munnur  of  each  tiny  wave 
Breaking  uix)n  the  shore ;  the  sand  be- 
low. 
Like  liquid  silver,  in  the  sunlight  glejuns : 
And  water-plant:)  and  |)ebbles,  white  as 
snow, 
(■low  with  a  brighter  luster  in  its  beams: 
They  look  so  near  the  surface,  you  would 

tliiiik 
To  sln*t<'h  an  ann  over  the  water's  brink 
That  you  might  n^airli  them ;  but  the  lakr 
is  deep, 
And  the  still  wave,  so  motionless  and 
clear, 
(!an  rouse  its  curling  billows  from  their 
»«l«'cp. 
And  dnAi  in  start  1(«1  fury  on  the  ear. 


A  THOUGHT. 

How  like  our  childhood*a  tears  and 

Its  rainlKiw  hopes,  its  April 
An'  lifeV  sad  cares,  its  pleaMOl  w3ak 

Its  bitter  griefk,  its  sanaj 
A  ehihl  in  sorrow  bent  her 

A  cloud  of  grief  her  jonag  biw  di 
e.1— 
•*  Ah,  see !  my  pretty 

The  >tem  is  broke,  the 


Sh«*  wept :  but  while  the  ririag  ^gb 

Was  tr«*mblin{;  in  her  preatle 
She  spied  a  (Kiinted  batterilj. 

And  siNin  f<irgn(  tiie  withcrad 
And  thus,  within  the  web  of  file. 

Many  a  golden  thread  is 
IVa«'(*  smiKiths  tlie  gkxaay 

Through  sorrow's  night 
U'aming. 


^••i 


FRANCES  LOCKE. 


Frances  Sprengle,  a  native  of  northern  Ohio,  was  bom  about  1830.  The 
3wn  of  Ashland,  where  much  of  her  childhood  was  spent,  possessed  an  Academj  of 
igh  order,  and  there  her  natural  taste  for  literature  was  encouraged  by  the  excellent 
Principal,  Lorin  Andrews,  now  President  of  Kenyon  College,  Gambier,  Ohio.  She 
■ave  early  promise  of  being  a  child  of  poesy,  as  files  of  the  several  literary  societies' 
legant  little  "Caskets"  and  "Amaranths"  attest.  She  has  been  a  contributor  to 
aost  of  the  magazines  of  the  day,  but  a  volume  of  her  writings  has  never  been  com- 
•iled.  In  1854,  she  married  Josiah  Locke— then  connected  with  the  Cincinnati  Press 
—and  resided  in  the  "  Queen  City  "  several  years,  but  having  since  adopted  Indians 
or  their  home,  she  now  lives  at  its  Capital 


BE  CONSIDERATR 

On !  if  we  knew  what  simple  things 
Oft  cheer  the  hearts  of  others, 

We'd  frequent  find  our  spirit-springs 
Brimful  of  bliss,  my  brothers. 

A  cheerful  smile,  a  pleasant  word. 

Which  we  can  always  give. 
Perchance    some    drooping    soul    hath 
stirred 

With  strength  to  love  and  live. 

An  act  may  be  by  us  unmarked. 
But  kenned  by  watchers  near ; 

The  song  which  we  unheeding  sing 
May  strike  another's  ear. 

If  we  but  give  our  "widow's  mite," 

To  aid  the  general  weal, 
To  help  along  the  cause  of  Right, 

How  angel-like  we  feel. 


THE  TRUE  LIFE. 

Dreaming  ofl  and  dreaming  ever, 
Living  in  the  present  never, 
Building  castles  high  and  airy, 
Filling  them  with  visions  fairy. 
Seeking  much  for  hidden  things. 
Longing  after  magic  wings, 
Spuming  known  and  real  beauty. 
Turning  oft  from  love  and  duty — 
Hearts  play  truant  to  their  sphere, 
Making  us  but  icQers  here. 

We  should  all  be  up  and  doing. 
Virtue's  golden  paths  pursuing, 
Working  hard  and  working  ever, 
Lagging  by  the  wayside  never. 
Putting  all  our  strength  together. 
Pulling  in  harmonious  measure, 
For  each  other's  pleasure  ready, 
With  our  hearts  all  true  and  steady ; 
If  this  our  active  life  should  be, 
How  happy  then  and  joyous  we. 


(693) 


38 


591 


FKANCKS    LOCKE. 


V^ 


TO  TILL. 

TiiKRE*8  room  for  hosts  of  angels 

lu  this  desert  of  a  heart; 
The  grounds  lie  all  in  ruins, 

Where  scarce  a  liower  can  start. 
Then  ho !  for  enucleation ! 

Sweet  spirits  up  above, 
Come  down  and  help  him  plant  it 

With  all  the  fruits  of  Love. 

Long  time  he  has  been  groping 

Among  the  swamps  of  sin ; 
Ix)ng  time  they  have  been  luring 

His  doubtful  footsteps  in ; 
But  one,  a  man  and  brother. 

Went  to  the  wanderer's  aid, 
And  on  the  shore  of  safety 

His  trembling  bunlen  laid. 

A  wreck  of  fallen  greatness, 

God's  image  all  defaced — 
Help,  brother !  help  to  raise  him 

To  where  he  should  l>e  plac<Ml. 
His  soul  is  choked  with  brambles, 

His  brain  is  dull  and  wild ; 
Yet  once  his  life  was  guileless-— 

He  was  a  happy  child. 

And  then  a  loving  mother 

Bent  o'er  his  cradle  bed, 
Oft  kissed  her  prec^ious  sleeper. 

And  pillowed  sot\  his  head. 
Oh !  friend  and  brother,  help  him, 

He  lieth  in  your  way  ; 
Uplift  the  wrongiid  and  wretched, 

And  teach  him  how  to  pray. 

Thrn-'s  land  in  earli  onvs  bo2iom, 

Tli:it  livth  wii-iiK'  apart ; 
AVhy  .-liould  wr  h-avt*  it  l)arn.'n, 

Tills  desert  of  the  heait  ? 


Twill  bring  the  sweetest  flower 
If  Love  the  seed  will  itrev; 

Twill  flush  with  bloooM  of  boi 
Beneath  aflfectioa's  dew. 

Then  lio!  for  enigratm! 

Sweet  spirits  op  abaffe. 
Come  down  and  help  as  tiB  it 

With  instminents  of  Lov^ 


THE  DAY'S  BDUAL. 


Up  the  senith  floats  a 
White  and  bound  with 

Like  a  f^iant  mooAreh's 
O'er  the  bkj  anrolledt 

Ready  for  the  royal 
Ready  to  enfold. 

Slowly  from  the  slopiag 
On  their  silver  steedsi 

Ride  the  moumenv  daiUf 
Widows  in  their 

While  from  out  each 
Crimson  anguish 


Grander  greatness 

In  the  vales  terrestrial 
Prouder  pageant 

0*er  the  heights 
But  the  funeral  glare 

Twilight  chants  the 


In  the  silent,  solemn  gimy. 
All  the  host  of  saiatlj 

Launched  in  tlie  ethcffcal  wava^ 
Tremblingly  begin  lo  pnj« 

As  they  piard  tlie  new-i 
Of  the  briUiant,  baiod  D^. 


««^ 


ALBERT   SUTLIFFE. 


Albert  Sdtlipfb — a  native  of  Meriden,  Connecticut,  where  he  was  bom  aboat 
lie  year  1830 — first  became  known  as  a  poet  through  the  columns  of  the  National 
^Sra  of  Washington  Citj.  He  wrote  for  that  journal,  in  its  prosperous  dajs,  a  few 
>oems  descriptive  of  summer  and  autumn  scenes,  which  were  much  admired  for  their 
ielicate  word-painting,  expressed  in  melodious  rhythm.  In  1854  Mr.  Sutlifie  became 
^  contributor  to  the  Genius  of  the  West,  at  CindnnatL  He  was  then  teaching  a  pri- 
^Ate  school  in  Kentucky.  In  1855  he  emigrated  to  the  far  West,  and  now  makes  his 
acme  among  the  hills  of  Minnesota,  where  his  mother  resides. 

In  1859  a  thin  volume,  containing  such  of  Mr.  Sutliffe's  poems  as  he  chose  to  col- 
lect, was  published  by  James  Monroe  &  Company,  Boston.  The  poems  selected  for 
uhese  pages  are  from  that  volume,  excepting  ^  Beyond  the  Hills,**  which  is  here  first 
published.  It  is  an  exact  picture  of  scenery  surrounding  his  Minnesota  home, 
^one  of  the  younger  poets  of  the  West  have  more  felicitously  described  the  charac- 
teristics of  our  seasons.  Mr.  Sutliffe's  muse  is  inclined  to  sadness,  but  sweetly  in- 
clined, and  not  to  the  detriment  of  either  its  versatility  or  its  power. 


RETROSPECTION. 

3uT  half  the  sky  is  filled  with  stars. 

And  half  the  sky  with  mist ; 
^o  moon  to  light  the  waste  of  snows ; 
But  toward  the  west  Orion  glows. 
And  undenieath,  the  east  wind  blows 

The  clouds  where  it  doth  list 

The  mist  creeps  swiftly  on  and  on, 

Tliu  stars  fiide  one  by  one ; 
Do  hopes  die  thus?  it  cannot  be; 
Thore  goes  Orion's  sword-belt,  see  I 
And  now  no  liglit  is  left  to  me 

lUit  inoinory  alone. 

And  can  wo  dream  when  stars  are  dead  ? 

1  ween  it  may  be  so; 

We    search    the   old   time    through    and 
through ; 

We  think  of  what  we  used  to  do ; 


We  light  our  altar-fires  anew; 
With  half  the  olden  glow. 

Bring  out  the  pictures  of  the  Past, 
That  we  may  look  them  o'er; 

Here  passed  my  childhood,  here  between 

These  high-browed  mountains;  here  the 
green 

Sloped  riverward ;  a  pleasant  scene. 
Star-lighted  now  once  more. 

There,  crept  my  childhood  on  to  youth ; 

Here,  was  a  space  for  tears ; 
Then,  'twas  one  tear  that  hid  the  sun, 
But  now  it  is — ah  !  many  a  one. 
With  floating  mists  or  shadows  dun 

Between  me  and  the  spheres. 

We  dreamed  the  day  out  till  the  stars, 
The  stars  out  till  the  day ; 


(595  ) 


••«» 


ALBERT   SUTLIFFE. 


[in 


\V  o  ^itU  "  Lvt  t-ume  the  darker  time ; 
l:ii;  .luui***  AiaU  \yd<6  like  pleasant  rhyme;" 
'»Vl'  Liiuu:;iiL  ihe  ni;j:hts  uH  morning  prime, 
V\iv  ."UiTS  wuuld  ?hine  alway. 

Wi»  tire  of  looking  o'er  the  Past ; 

Our  ultar-tires  grow  dim ; 
Wi*  see  the  snow-clouds  gathering  cold ; 
The  deadlier  mists  around  uh  fold  ; 
All !  but  our  hearts  arc  over-hold  ; 

Llow  dense  the  shadows  swim. 

Wf  look  al>ovo  and  look  around. 
The  e^hadows  touch  our  eyes ; 
We  hear  thmugh  hollow  distance  still 
The  nioiming  wind  across  the  hill. 
The  fien^e  gust  seeking,  seeking  still. 
And  winning  no  replies. 

The  stars  are  out  and  memory  fades ; 

Alas !  what  may  be  done ! 
We  fold  our  robes  to  k«*ep  aglow 
The  heArt-fin»s,  flickering,  burning  low. 
Chilled  by  the  snow-<-loud  and  the  snow. 

And  longing  for  the  sun. 

Hehind  us  like  a  place  of  tombs. 

The  Past  lies  sad  and  lone ; 
Before  us,  dreamed-of,  hojM'd-for,  guess'd, 
And  sloping  downward  unto  n^st, 
Glo<)ms  the  broad  Future,  all  unblest, 

Visioned,  but  still  unknown. 

Stand  up,  my  soul,  with  lIofM^  In^side, 
And  search  the  sky  for  ^t4lrs ! 

It  may  W.  that  the  storm  will  ceii>e; 

And  from  the  glorious  starlit  EjLst, 

Some  angel  voice  will  whi>iM'r  jwace 
L)(jwn  through  thy  prison-bars. 

L(H>k  out,  my  soul,  with  counigt*  high, 

Altliou<rh  thou  be  but  onr ! 
What  if  the  Norhind,  blowing  bit'ak, 
Fn-fzi*  all  the  tears  upon  thy  cht^ik ! 
LtMik  upward,  if  thou  cannt  not  s|)<fak, 

And  think,  "Thy  will  be  done  I" 


MAT  NOOX. 

TiiK  farmer  tireth  of  hia  haif-diy  lA 

He  paus4*th  at  the  plow, 
lie  gazeth  o'er  the  fuirow-liiKd 

Brown  hand  above  hi* 


kme-BidM  ^ 


lie  hears,  like  winds* 
the  bills. 

The  lazy  river  run ; 
From  shade  of  covert  woods  the 

Bound  ibrth  into  the  »iiil 


The    clustered    clouds   of 
blooms, 
iSc4in*e  shivered  by  a 
With  odor  faint,  like  Ho 
rooms 
Fall,  Hake  bj  flake,  in 


wen  m  few 


In  neighboring  fields  with 
I         eonl, 

I     Moist  brows  and  minbunit 
The  brothers  of  h\»  toil  apna  the  §wai 
Unloa<e  the  irksome  bttndib 


Straight  through  Mant  foSage  «f  db  b 
tield-oak. 
The  }>n»itd  sun  sheds  ita  imvf ; 
;  Wreath  aliove  wreath  the  towcriag  MM 
!         smoke 

Curls  up  from  hearths  abkae. 

i 

And  savory  scents  go  forth  upon  ikr  tt 

From  generous  door»  ^wanje  haei. 
■While  stout  old  dames  and  grslkrp 
I  pn'|mre 

The  ehe«'r  which  doth  not 

By  tlmMidlike  pathii  which 

The  fasting  bandA 
'And  list!  the  hoiue-flj 
nnst^altHl 

Make  ill  a  hungfj 


rf« 


nmnd  tfe  iMi 


rris  hiljor*s  ebb ;  a  bosh  of  giMb  ph 
For  man,  and  I  Basl»  and  hiri; 


] 


ALBERT   SUTLIFFE. 


697 


avering  songster  ceases  its  employ ; 
aspen  is  not  stirred. 

ature  hath  no  pause;  she  toileth 

11; 

re  the  last-year  leaves 

the  lithe  germ,  and  o'er  the  ter- 
med hill 
jsher  carpet  weaves. 

nany  veins  she  sends  her  gathered 

eams 

tie  huge-billowed  main, 

through    the    air,    impalpable    as 

eams, 

calls  them  back  again. 

akes  the  dew  from  her  ambrosial 

jks, 

pours  adown  the  steep 

undering  waters ;  in  her  palm,  she 

cks 

flower-throned  bee  to  sleep. 

in  the  tempest,  faint  and  fragile 
in, 

tremble  in  the  calm ! 
ainest  shows  what  great  Jehovah 

lese  fair  days  of  balm. 


JUNR 

vrelong  day,  this  summer  weather, 
;ed  by  the  zephyr  fleet, 
;ht  and  the  shadow  go  together 
•  the  browning  wheat. 

ler  the  staring  daytime  closes, 
ionlesa,  white,  and  high, 
3on  peeps  into  the  elvish  roses, 
of  her  native  sky. 


Under  the  hill  where  the  sun  shines  dimmer, 
Shrunk  from  the  eager  beam, 

The  brook  goes  on,  with  a  fitful  glimmer, 
And  music  for  a  dream. 

Over  the  groves  and  moistened  meadows 
The  steady  gray  hawks  wing. 

And  down  below,  in  the  shifling  shadows, 
The  merry  smaU  birds  sing. 

My  tired  foot,  from  the  broad  sun  going, 

Presseth  the  curling  moss, 
And  my  eye  doth  see,  'mid  the  green 
leaves  showing. 

The  fair  clouds  flit  across. 


OCTOBER. 

Now  the  middle  autumn  dayB, 
'Neath  a  blue  luxurious  sky, 

Over  woods  and  traveled  ways, 
With  their  golden  glories  lie. 

Now  the  oak  that  stands  afield, 

Royal  on  a  dais  brown. 
Shows  its  kingly  purple  shield 

Like  the  jewels  of  a  crown. 

In  the  late  September  rains 

Dark  the  night  and  dim  the  day ; 

Rings  of  mist  shut  in  the  plains, 
And  the  dawns  were  sad  and  gray. 

But  the  sunlight  drove  the  shades 

Over  hill  and  over  stream, 
Far  into  the  stillest  glades, 

Where  the  owlets  dream  and  dream. 

Where  the  blue  sky  stoopeth  down. 
It  hath  won  a  golden  edge. 

O'er  the  corn-fields  square  and  brown, 
With  their  line  of  crimson  hedge. 

Plainly  heard,  the  pheasant's  drum 
Falleth  through  the  air  of  mom ; 


598 


ALHERT   SUTLIFFE. 


P* 


Striking  all  tlie  echoes  dumb 
Pi|>ed  the  quail  beyond  the  com. 

Silent  doth  tlie  river  run, 

Ijapsing  to  the  silent  sea. 
Through  the  shadows,  tlirough  the  sun, 

Neither  sudly  nor  in  glee ; 

Past  the  inlets,  imst  the  bays, 
Dreaming  in  and  out  at  coves ; 

Silver  in  the  meadow  ways ; 
Golden  undemeatli  the  groves. 

Children  whom  no  sorrow  grieves, 
Lfoiter  on  the  way  to  school, 

Watching  how  the  crimson  leaves 
Flutter  down  into  the  pool. 

Every  thing  the  soAer  seems  ; 

Gentlier  doth  tlie  worldling  speak, 
Tarrying  in  the  land  of  dreams 

With  glad  eye  and  flushing  clieek. 

And  the  matron  far  in  years, 
Moveth  with  a  graver  grace, 

All  her  by-gone  hopes  and  fears 
Grouped  and  diastened  in  her  face. 

Oh,  ye  days,  I  may  not  speak 
All  your  teachings  unto  me ; 

Ye  are  balm  to  hearts  that  break, 
Oil  unto  the  troubled  sea. 

I  am  gliding  down  the  stream ; 

Ye  are  ranged  on  either  side ; 
Can  I  pause  awhile  to  dream  ? 

Nay  !  I  cannot  stem  the  tide  I 

For  I  hear  a  noise  of  pain, 

Rosir  of  winds  and  rush  of  waves, 

Dashing  o*er  a  sea  of  storms, 
Beating  on  a  shore  of  graves. 


THECHUBCH. 

Tns  antique  chureh* — ittkrakfllli 

Ten  paces  from  the  gutu ; 
The  emerald  neat  doCh  chip  in  fal 

The  quiet  gravea  bctweei ; 
Strong-buttre»sed  like  a  eMtk  M 

That  hath  iufiU  of  wan; 
By  night  and  day,  gold  eve  or  gnjf, 

It  pointa  the  place  of 


It  chMps  a  holj  silence  in. 

Six  days  of  every  sereSp 
And  then  an  angel 

Plays  interindes  of 
And  in  the  hushing  of  the  dqn^ 

Throughout  the  after  vcc^ 
Unto  the  golden-kissing  sia 

It  holds  its  duskj  cheek. 


Within,  the  noted  sanlighl 

On  carving  rich  and 
Without,  fiir  off,  hums 

The  knavery  of  the  town ; 
Within,  tlie  light  makes  pudj 

The  niches  of  the  saian^-^ 
Without,  the  earth  dblh  float 

With  immemorial  plaints^ 


A  porphyry  anjsel  o'er  the 

Its  breadth  of  plume 
A  purple  light,  sensoelj 


RvM*  on  it  as  it  w«m.  t 
It  hath  no  haste  to  stir  its 

Dun  eve  or  dawning 
Its  stt^ady  shade,  like 

Doth  cross  the  rhnncel 


Old  friendships  snap;  lore'i 

Lies  shattered  in  mj  ImU; 
Yet  still  God*s  granite  iiaiih—  I 

The  ciiords  that  thrilled  ef  el^ 
And  still  may  its  emngd  bei 

Through  endless  i 
While  yet  ito  telUak 

Clangs  oat    i  lioarlj 


ALBERT    SUTLIFFE. 


599 


BEYOND  THE  HILLS. 

le  hills,  my  little  world 
ien  beneath  the  summer  suns ; 
ing  down  the  easy  slopes, 
id  streamlet  runs. 

e  horizon's  wavy  line 
ids  come  up,  and  pause,  and  go, 
sured  in  the  depths  of  blue, 
ling  onward  slow. 

bills  the  shadows  lie, 

;stward  trails   when  comes  the 

osed,  eastward  traveling, 
ling  into  nighL 

ijyond  conception  fair, 
limbing  unto  yonder  peak, 
ns  the  silver  birch-tree  forth, 
ivers  as  to  speak 

rethrcn  o'er  the  vale, 
ig  to  the  scanty  soil, 

seeming  fruitless  lives 

the  winds  with  toil 

beyond  conception  fair, 
uent  range  of  cultured  farms, 
n  fields  in  firm  embrace 
fair  river's  arms  ! 

y  world  that  lies  within 
ills,  and  yon  green  line  of  woods, 
\  in  prime  of  summer  time 
rmdd  heaven  broods. 

yond  the  intrenchdd  hills 
rning  soul  ttikes  eager  wing, 
tnagination's  flowers 
vilh  eternal  Spring. 

nighty  river  on, 

ies  bathing  weary  feet, 

)ns  grimed  with  toil  and  dust 

nting  in  the  street ; 


Estates  innumerous,  and  wilds, 

Vine-vailed  from  summer  heats  intense, 
Dim  groves  of  orange,  sunny-bathed 

In  tropic  indolence, 

Until  the  deep  unending  sea 

In  sultry  summer  sweetly  smiles, 

Swelling  and  falling  ceaselessly 
About  its  thousand  isles. 

Before  me  stretch  the  leagues  of  coast, 
The  Ming  mist,  the  white-sailed  ships ; 

And  past  its  towers  of  fleecy  cloud 
The  blue  sky  calmly  dips. 

I  spread  my  sails ;  away  I  away  I 

My  native  shores  grow  dim ;  are  gone ; 

Night  chases  day,  day  chases  night, 
Until  some  sudden  spice-blown  dawn, 

To  led  and  right  the  island  palms 
Nod  golden  in  the  coming  light, 

And  slowly  westward,  dragon-plumed, 
Retreats  the  dusky  night 

The  great  sea  swallows  up  its  isles ; 

The  waving  palms  go  westward  down ; 
Through  zones  of  light  and  shadow  on, 

Bright  noons  and  twilights  brown. 

Until  the  shores  of  fabled  Ind 

From  low-laid  cloud  take  gradual  shape, 
And  gliding  o'er  some  glassy  bay, 

Beyond  a  pleasant  ca|>e, 

I  hear  the  muezzin's  call  to  prayer 
Across  the  noonday  waters  still. 

And  past  the  town,  and  iields  of  rice. 
The  paged  crowns  the  hilL 

The  banyan's  cool  and  dim  arcades 
Retire  to  cooler,  dimmer  deeps, 

The  parrot  flashes  through  the  shades. 
The  vine  in  endless  net-work  creeps : 


€00 


ALBERT    SUTLIFFE. 


[!■ 


The  grand,  world-crowning  Himalny, 
Cloud-girdled  underneath  its  ahows  ; 

Far  down,  Uie  enamored  bulbul  wooes 
His  own  deep-hearted  rose. 

My  hasty  sails  are  fancy-blown ; 

I  trace  the  huge  unshaded  Nile, 
From  springs  in  Ktliiop  lands  remote, 

Past  cabalistic  pile, 

Past  questioning  sphinx,  'mid  wastes  of 
sand. 

And  carven  temple,  dark  and  dread. 
With  old-world  theories  overgrown, 

Deep-graven,  but  all  dead : 

The  wonder  of  tlie  pyramids, 
Clear-cut  upon  the  desert  line, 

Relics  of  Isis,  and  the  days 
When  Nature  was  divine. 

Again  away  ;  through  polar  night 

The  white  bear  o'er  the  ice-field  steals, 

And  reddening  in  the  polar  light. 
The  iceberg  snaps  and  reels. 

The  huge  whale  spouts  upon  the  lee ; 

Far  off  the  hutted  Esquimaux 
Their  hardy  coursers  drive  with  speed. 

Across  the  wastes  of  snow. 

I  turn  the  dark,  historic  page ; 

The  weary  prest'nt  f:ules  away, 
And  loAy-pillared  Greece  and  Home 

Are  cities  of  to-day. 

On  miracles  of  classic  art 

The    southern    splendors    glance    and 
gleam ; 
On  Pluto,  with  great  thought  and  heart, 

In  groves  of  Academe ; 

On  Cln'cian  fleet  by  Salamis; 

On  bust  and  nymph  of  jM'erless  grace; 
On  fountain,  plinth,  and  p<*ristyle, 

And  Irerinj;  cvnicV  face. 


The  sunshine  in  the  streets  of 
Is    Mained    with   blood;   the  in 
sounds. 

And  o'er  the  Coliseam's  sand 
The  nervy  lion  boondt. 

The  elder  Brutus  stand*  nftaU 
>Vith  heel  firm-pressed,  as  if  he  tti 

The  father  underneath  hi*  feeC; 
Stem-faced  like  any  god. 

The  younger  BnitiLs  mnsing  kie. 
Vexed  by  his  foe'«  intnuiTe  ihadei 

Looks  grandly  soulful  tbitwgh  the  ■ 
The  ebbing  yearn  have 


And  Coriohinus,  browed  with 
With  curling  lip  and  haoghty  ml 

Watches  the  wild  plebeian  mt§t, 
Like  restless  sea  wavei  ralL 


In  intervals  of  soothing 

I  turn  the  poet's  channM  leawci; 
Through  bowers  and  groret  of  i« 
song 

The  wind  of  autumn  grie^ 


'Mid  grots,  and  blissfal 

The  poet's  voice  falls  still  aad  ctai 
With  note  of  hopeful  propbeeyp 

Or  warning  voice  of  fear^* 

Or  still  small  voice  of  tjmpalihjt 
Impassioned  with  haman 

Falling  upon  the  marble  heart 
Like  fire  flakes  upon 


Thus  do  1  bunt  the  mtreocUd  Uh 
These  cerements  of  neeleM  dajt 

And,  like  the  fantasy  of  dwamii 
All  things  around  me  pl^  s 


Until  the  hilki  re-gather 
The  shallows  creepi  the 

The  sky  re-opens  holy 
And  simrkles  over  alL 


MATTIE   GRIFFITH. 


year  1853,  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York,  published  a  thin  volume  entitled 
by  Mattie  Griffith."  Miss  Griffith  was  then  a  favorite  contributor  to  the 
5  Journal.  She  is  a  Kentucky  poet  "  to  the  manor  bom,"  her  birthplace 
uisville,  we  believe.  She  is  now  residing  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  and  is 
)oems  and  tales  for  The  Anti-Slavery  Standard,  and  other  New  York  and 
^urnals. 


CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR. 

ago  the  music  of  the  wood 

be  low  chant  of  waves  came  o'er 

glade, 

no  murmur  breaks  the  solitude, 

.  stem  weight  on  Nature's  pulse 

IS  laid. 

n  has  seen  the  death  of  countless 

•8 

her  blue  air-halls  in  the  midnight 

her   dim,  sad   eye   looks   down 
ugh  tears 
the  earth  to  see  another  die. 

d  beautiful,  she  sits  alone, 
iestess  of  the  sky,  and  in  her  pale 
:ht  a  spell  of  mournful  love  seems 
wn 

the  plain,  the  forest,  and  the  vale ; 
Old  Year's  death-hour,  but  no  sob 
on  the  night-air  from  his  dying 
ist; 

md  calm  and   still,  without  one 
b 
)ny,  he  passes  to  his  rest. 


;  are  in  our  hearts  and  in  our  eyes 
h(»  strange  stillness  of  this  solemn 
It, 


While  here  we  sit  and  muse  upon  the  ties 

The  dying  year  has  severed  in  his  flight; 

Aye,  as  his  last  breath  on  the  air  is  flung, 

Our  hearts  are  heavy  and  our  eyes  are 

dim 

With  thinking  of  the  woes  that  with  him 

sprang 

To  life— alas  I  they  cannot  die  with  him. 

Like  the  cold  shadow  of  a  demon's  plume, 
A  chilling  darkness  that  will  not  depart 
Lies  on  our  thoughts  and  casts  its  sullen 
gloom 
Around  the  dearest  idols  of  the  heart ; 
We  leam  in  youth  the  stem  and  bitter 
lore 
That  comes  of  rained  hopes  and  dark* 
enod  dreams, 
And  nature  has  no  magic  to  restore 
The  glory  of  the  spirit's  shadowed  gleams. 


Scattered  and  broken  on  life's  desert  wide. 

The  souVs  best  gems,  its  brightest  treas- 
ures shine, 
And  memories  of  joy  and  love  and  pride 

Lie   dim   upon   the  bosom's    shattered 
shrine ; 
We  gaze  into  the  future,  but  a  shade 

Is  on  its  visions,  they  are  not  so  bless'd 
And  beautiful  as  those  the  year  has  laid 

Within  the  heart's  deep  sepukher  to  rest 

(601  ) 


(H)2 


MATTIE   GRIFFITH. 


[IM- 


Tilt'  mu.sic  of  our  beinj^'s  ruahing  Mraam 
Is  (j^rowing  8ad  and  saddvr  day  by  day, 

And  lito  is  hut  n  tnmbU'd  fvver-dn^am 
T)mt  8oon  must  vani^ih  from  our  soulV 
army ; 

But  when  this  wild  and  fearful  dream  is 


past, 
The  mounting  spirits  of  tlic  pure  will 

rove 
Above  the  cloud,  the  whirlwind,  and  the 

blast. 
In  the  brlglit  Kden  of  immortal  love. 

Farewell,  Old  Year !  while  sorrow  dims  our 

We  bless  thcc  for  the  lessons  thou  hast 
given ; 
Tlio!i;rh  thou  hast  filled  earth's  atmosphere 
with  sighs, 
AVe  tni>t  that  tliou  hast  brought  us  near- 
er heaven ; 
Some  stars  that  gleam  alcmg  thy  shadowy 
tnu'k 
Will  shine  u|)on  our  hearts  with  holy 
jiower. 
And  oil  our  pilgrim-spirits  will  eome  baek 
To  muse  and  weep  o*er  this  thy  dying 
hour. 

Old  Year,  farewell!  the  myriad  flowers 
that  thou 
Hast  blighted  will  again  in  beauty  bloom,  j 

to  l>ow 

In  death,  will  rise  in  triumph  from  the 
tomb. 
Not  thus.  Old  Year,  with  thee.     Thy  life, 
now  fled, 
No  |M>\verof  (linlor  Natun»  will  restore; 
The  graves  of  yt»ars  may  not  give  up  their 
dead, 
And  tiiou  wilt  live,  oh  never,  nevermore. 

Farewi'l!  I     fon'\er    fare    thee    well,    Old 
Yrar! 
Tin*  iT'^iitle  An«:«'l,  mi>:«ioncd  at  thv  birth 


To  keep  life's  records  through  ihj 
here, 
Has  poised  her  Bhining  wiDg  aai  1 
the  earth ; 
Oh  may  the  worda  of  lore  and  bmrj  i 
Heaven's  own  bleu'd  nuMC^oncwA  a 
ing  soul, 
When  on  His  burning  throne  the  M 
of  all 
Shall  to  our  eyefi  unfold  the  awfid 


And  breathing;  millions  thou  hast  caused 


LEAVE  ME  TO  liVS 


TO-NIGR 

Go,  leave  me  to  myself  to-nigfal ! 
My  smiles  to-morrow  shjdl  be  bri^ 
But  now  I  only  ask  to  wee|s 
Alone,  alone,  in  silence  deepu 


Go,  go  and  join  the  w; 
With  floating  »tep  and  jojooi 
But  leave,  oh  leave  me  here  lo 
0*er  holy  memory^a  guarded  ke^^ 


Within  mv  Fours  unfatlioowd  Ih 
Are  (H^arlit  and  jewels  I  must  Ui 
Deep  from  the  nade  and  Tulgar  c^vi 

Of  Fafthion's  wild,  gaj 

I  Bilk  not  sympathy,  I  ask 
But  solitude  for  my  dear 
Of  wat(*hing  o'er  tho^e 
Deep  in  my  tfoul's  ui 


Ah !  tears  are  to  my  w 
Like  dew  to  floveni — then  do  aol 
Nor  deem  me  weak,  that  thus  I 
In  silence  lone,  and  daric  and 


Tis  but  a  few  brief  bonis  tkal  I 
Would  from  the  glad  and  joyous  §jt 
And  then,  like  them.  III 
Free  fn>m  tlie  tears  that 


But  oh :  to-night  I 
And  deeply  all  my 
In  the  {<woot  luxury  of 
Shed  itver  the  sluiao  of 


HORACE   RUBLEE. 


Horace  Rublee,  to  whom  politics  are  now  greater  than  poetiy,  holds  the  office  of 
State  Librarian  in  Wisconsin,  and  is  the  editor  of  the  StcUe  JoumcU^  published  at  Madi- 
son. He  was  born,  about  thirty  years  ago,  in  Vermont ;  he  came  to  Wisconsin  at  the 
age  of  ten,  and  is  consequently  one  of  the  "oldest  inhabitants.^ 

We  b(^lievc  he  no  longer  poetizes,  and  attributes  his  former  poetry  to  youthful  im- 
pressibility and  inexperience.  The  following  pleasant  verses  indicate  the  possession 
of  a  talent  which  should  yet  be  cultivated. 


STEADFASTNESS. 

O  THOU  who  in  the  ways 
Of  this  rough  world  art  faint  and  weary 
grown, 
Thy  drooping  head  upraise, 
And  let  thy  heart  be  strong ;  for,  better 
days. 
Trust  still  that  future  time  will  unto  thee 
make  known. 

In  darkness,  danger,  pain, 
Despondency,  misfortune,  sorrow,  all 

The  woes  which  we  sustain. 
Still  be  thou  strong,  from  idle  tears  re- 
frain. 
And  yet  upon  thy  brow,  in  time,  success 
shall  fall. 

Banish  that  viewless  fiend, 
Whose  horrid  presence  men  have  named 
Despair; 
*  Let  all  thy  efforts  tend 
Tlirough  life  unto  some  great,  some  no- 
ble end, 
And  life  itself  will  soon  a  nobler  aspect 
wear. 


As  the  sofl  breath  of  Spring 
Robes  in  bright  hues  the  dark  old  Earth 
again, 
So  would  such  purpose  bring 
Thee  back  the  buoyancy  of  youth,  and 
fling 
Joy  on  thy  aching  heart  unfelt  through 
years  of  pain. 

Like  the  untrembling  ray 
Of  some  clear  planet,  shining  through 
the  night, 
Pursue  thy  steady  way  ; 
And  though  through  gloom  and  dark- 
ness it  may  lay, 
Thou  shalt  at  last  emerge  and  tread  a  path 
of  light 

But  not  by  weak  endeavor, 
By  fickle  course,  fidht-heartednesss,  and 
fear. 
Canst  thon  expect  to  sever 
The  massy  links  of  error's  chain ;  for 
never 
Did  they   before  aught  else  save  stout 
strokes  disappear. 


To  the  Steadfast  alone 
The  OEiatchless  glory  of  her  un  vailed  form 


(603) 


GIH 


UORACE    RUBLEE. 


[I«t^ 


I>(K^fl  Truth  make  fully  known ; 
Wlio  would   her  perfect   loveliness  bi* 
shown, 
His  fixed  design  must  bear,  unmoved  in 
calm  or  storm. 

Go,  then,  and  from  the  wells 
Of  ancient  lore — ^from  bards  and  sages 
old, 
And  from  the  chronidca 
Of  deeds  heroic,  gather  potent  spells 
Such  as  shall  nerve  thy  soul  to  action  high 
and  bold. 


LONGINGS. 

I  LONG  for  some  intenser  life, 
Some  wilder  joy,  some  sterner  strife  I 
A  dull  slow  stream,  whose  waters  pass 
Through  weary  wastes  of  drear  morass. 
Through  reptile-breeding  levels  low — 
A  sluggish  ooze,  and  not  a  flow — 
Choked  up  with  fat  and  slimy  weeds, 
The  current  of  my  life  proceeds. 

Once  more  to  meet  the  advancing  sun, 
Earth  puts  her  bridal  glories  on  ; 
Once  mure  beneath  the  summer  moons, 
The  whippowil  her  song  attunes  ; 
Once  moR'  the  elements  are  rife 
AVith  countless  forms  of  teeming  life ; 
LitV*  iilLi  the  air  and  (ills  the  deeps  ; 
Life  fn>iu  the  quickened  clod  up-leaps ; 
But  all  too  feeble  is  the  ray 
Tluit  (i;lances  on  our  northern  day  ; 
And  man,  beneath  its  faint  impress, 
Grows  sordid,  cold,  and  passionless. 

I  long  to  greet  those  ardent  climes, 
Whero  the  sun's  burning  heat  sublimes 
All  forms  of  being,  and  imparts 
Its  frr\or  <'vcn  to  human  he^irts; 
To  ^(M'  up-tuw(*ring,  grand  and  calm, 
The  king  of  trees,  the  lonlly  palm, 


And,  when  night  darkeiu  ChFoagh  the 
Watch  the  strange  congtelltiom  rite : 
The  floral  pomps,  Che  fniiu  of  goU, 
The  fiery  life  I  would  behold ; 
The  swart  warm  beauties,  luaaouB^ 
With  hearts  in  passion's  lava  dipped; 
Nature's  excess  and  o¥Ci|gwwHh ; 
The  light  and  splendor  of  the 


Or,  if  it  lie  my  lot  to  bear 

This  pulseless  life,  this  Uaak 

Waft  me,  ye  winds,  unto 

Round  which  the  far 

Where,  through  the  sun-bright 

Their  purple  peaks  the 

Where  Earth  is  garmented  fai  E^t, 

And  with  unfading  Sprin 

Then,  if  my  life  must  be 

Without  a  plan,  without  i 

From  purpose  as  from 

A  dream  of  beauty  it  shall  be. 


DREAX-FACEBL 


The  faces  that  we  see  in 
Are  radiant,  as  if  with 
From  some  diviner  world 
A  sweeter,  sadder 
Darkens  the  depths  of  lori^g 
A  more  sernpliic  beauty  lies 
On  lip  and  brow,  than  ever  jet 
The  gaze  of  waking  mortal  me 


O  blessed  mysteiy  of  sleep! 
That  can  recall  from  out  tin 
Of  vanished  yean,  and 
Tlie  loved  and  lost  to  life 
That  makes  each  memorj  a 
Reality,  and  tills  the  night 
j  With  gladness  and  sweet 
;  Like  lingering  per 


lethrnul  tfci*^ 


ROSA  VERTNER  JOHNSON. 


Rosa  Vertner  Johnson,  whose  real  maiden  name  was  Griffith,  but  who  was 
the  adopted  child  of  a  prominent  and  wealthy  citizen  of  Mississippi,  named  Vertner, 
was  bom  at  Natchez.  Her  childhood  home  was  at  a  romantic  country-seat  belonging 
to  her  adopted  parents,  near  Port  Gibson,  Mississippi.  She  was  educated,  however, 
at  Lexington,  Kentucky,  and  began  there  to  write  poems  for  the  Louisville  Journal^ 
which  were  much  admired  for  their  delightful  rhythm  and  beautiful  imagery. 

In  1856,  George  D.  Prentice  wrote  a  notice  of  Mrs.  Johnson  and  her  poetry,  to 
accompany  a  portrait  in  GraharrCs  Magazine,  from  which  we  quote  : 

*•  Rosa,"  during  all  the  yt'ars  of  her  life,  has  been  a  favored  child  of  fortune,  living  in  wealth 
and  luxury,  a  star  of  fashion,  and  the  center  of  a  very  large  circle  of  devoted  friends  and  ad- 
mirers  Probably  few  ladies,  situated  as  she  has  been,  would  ever  have  given  much 

thought  to  literature.  But  heaven  made  her  a  poet,  and  all  the  fascinations  and  allurements  of 
fashionable  society  have  not  been  able  to  mar  heaven's  handiwork.  The  daughter  of  a  poet  and 
a  man  of  genius,  she  has  written  poetry  almost  from  her  childhood.  She  writes  it  because  she 
must.  It  will  not  be  shut  up  in  her  heart — as  no  doubt  many  of  her  admirers  fain  would  be.  The 
spirit  of  poetry  is  strong  within  her,  and,  if  she  were  not  to  utter  it,  she  would,  like  a  mute  song- 
bird, die  of  imprisoned  melody.  We  have  seen  her  in  festive  halls  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  and, 
although  she  had  ever  a  quick  and  genial  reply  to  the  thousand  flatteries  constantly  breathed  into 
her  ears,  we  have  often  thought  that  she  would  gladly  have  surrendered  all  the  delights  of  such 
occasions  to  be  one  hour  alone,  with  the  Muse  of  her  heart,  beneath  the  starlit  fky,  or  in  the 
beautiful  and  holy  twilight  time. 

In  1858  Ticknor  &  Fields,  Boston,  Massachusetts,  published  a  handsome  duodec- 
imo volume  of  334  pages,  entitled  **  Poems  by  Rosa,"  which  was  received  with  more 
favor  than  her  most  sanguine  friends  anticipated.  Mrs.  Johnson  spent  a  considerable 
share  of  her  earlier  married  life  in  Louisiana,  but  for  several  years  past,  has  adorned 
the  social  circles  of  Lexington  in  winter  as  well  as  in  summer  seasons.  That  delight^ 
ful  city  is  now  her  permanent  home.  Mr.  Johnson  is  a  prominent  member  of  the 
legal  profession,  and  a  man  of  liberal  wealth,  who  dispenses  a  generous  hospitality  at 
a  home  whose  mistress  is  eminent  for  beauty  as  well  as  for  poesy  among  even  the 
women  of  Kentucky.     In  the  sketch  previously  quoted  from,  Mr.  Prentice  said  : 

Whether  we  think  of  her  as  she  moves  in  the  social  circle  with  that  graceful  statelincss  with 
which  the  af^sixMation  of  genius  invests  dignity,  fascinating  one  by  the  blushing  cliarm  with  which 
her  mo<le8ty  responds  to  the  admiration  her  presence  and  her  poetry  inspire  ;  .  .  .  or  us  pouring 
forth  her  rich  thoughts  and  jeweled  fancies  from  the  retirement  of  her  room  to  thrill  and  delight 
the  hearts  of  the  community ;  or  as  gliding  in  her  tiny  shallop  over  the  deep  blue  lakes,  that  seem 
like  fair  and  lonely  spirits  to  haunt  with  their  solemn  beauty  the  wild  forests  surrounding  her 
Southern  home,  bearing  her  light  fowling-piece  in  her  hand,  and  bringing  down  the  flying  birds  at 
almost  every  shot,  thrre.  and  every  where,  as  a  woman,  we  delight  to  think  of  her  with  admira- 
tion, and  proudly  do  we  love  to  claim  her  as  a  Western  poetess. 


(605) 


C(Mi 


ROSA    VERTNKR   JOHNSON. 


I" 


THE  SUNSET  CITY. 

I  8AW  a  strange,  ))cautiful  city  arise 

On  an  i>lan(l  of  light,  in  tlu;  sapphire  skic'fs 

WhtMi    the    Sun   in  his   Tyrian   dra|)er}' 

drt'ss'd, 
Lik('  u  sliadow  of  God,  floated  down  to  the 

WfSt. 

A  city  of  clouds !  in  a  moment  it  grew 
On  an  inland  of  p<*arl,  in  an  oc<*an  of  blue, 
And  sjiirits  of  twilight  enticed  me  to  fttray 
Through    those  {mlaces  reared   from  the 
ruins  of  day. 

In  musical  murmurs,  the  soffc  sunset  air, 
Like  a  golden- winged  angel,  seemed  culling 

me  there, 
And  my  fancy  sped  on  till  it  found  a  rare 

home, 
A  palace  of  jasper,  with  emerald  dome, 
On  a  violet  strand,  by  a  wide  azure  flood ; 
And  where  this  rich  City  of  Sunset  now 

stood, 
Met  bought  some  stray  seraph  had  broken 

a  bar 
From  the  gold  gates  of  £dcn  and  left  them 

ajar. 

Hen*  wore  amethyst  castles,  whose  turrets 

seemed  s[»un 
Of  fire  drawn  out  from  the  heart  of  the 

sun ; 
With  columns  of  amber,  and  fountains  of 

light, 
Whicii  threw  up  vast  showers,  so  chang- 

iujily  liright. 


On  the  calm  brow  of  £tcii,  who 

return 
For  the  gem  on  her  btow  and  tke  4t« 

her  urn, 
S<>eme<]  draping  the  daihjwjf  fladlU 

its  gloom 
With  the  rose-colored  cmtain 

from  her  kMMn, 
All    bonlered    with     purple 

dyes, 
Floating  out  like  %  fringe  fnm  the  vm 

the  skies. 


And  lo!   far  awaj,  on   die 

night. 
Rose  a  chain  of 

drously  bright, 
Tliey  seemed  built  from 

splendor  that  start 
Through  the  depths  of  the 

talline  heart. 
When  light  with  a  magical  toock 

vealed 
The  treasure  of  beama  in  its 

cealed : 
And  torrents  of  aanre,  aD 

prou«l. 
Swept  noiselessly  down 

ains  of  cloud. 


Rut  the  tide  of  the 

its  flood, 
And  broke  o*er  the  •t'^td  w 

palace  stood ; 
Whilo  far  in  the  distance  the 

to  lave 


m* 


That  'llopt*  might  have  stoh'n  their  ex-  Like  a  silver-winged  swan  innqjhftcl 

(|ui>-il('  >hocn  {  wave. 

To  wnvc  in  h»  r  LMTtlltMif  miiihows,  I  wcon,:  And  then,  like  Atlantis,  that  isle  if  I 

Aii'i  arrlir-  of  Horv  irn  w  over  me  then*.  I  bI<>s^M, 

A<^    (111 -«'    f'ni]iit:iiri<   of    Sunset    shot    upi  Which  in  olden  time  sank  ^Math  thtM 


li.r*iiii:li  the  iiir. 

Wiule   T   looked    fn»m    my  cloud -pillared 

}»:il:ii'c  at:ir, 
I  >aw  Ni;iht  h't  fall  one  vast,  tremulous  star, 


to  re^st 

(Wiiieh  now  the  bine 

shrouds). 
Dropped  down  in  the 

of  clouds. 


in  mpm 


1860-60.] 


ROSA   VERTNER   JOHNSON. 


607 


THE  SEA-BmD»S  TREASURE. 

On  a  rock  vast  and  hoar. 

By  a  desolate  shore, 
One  bright  eve,  as  I  wandered  alcme, 

A  gaunt  sea-bird  I  spied, 

Looking  down  on  the  tide, 
Dark  and  grim,  from  his  wave-beaten  throne. 

Mute  and  motionless  there, 

In  the  sun-tinted  air. 
And  with  plumage  as  black  as  the  night, 

That  wild  ocean-bird  seemed 

Like  the  form  of  a  fiend, 
Standing  forth  from  a  background  of  light 

A  gay,  frolicsome  breeze 

Fluttered  over  the  seas. 
And  sang  on  till  the  waters  were  stirred ; 

But  a  strange,  low  lament 

With  its  melody  blent, 
As  I  gazed  on  that  spectral  bird. 

For  lo  I  there  as  he  stood, 
Looking  down  on  the  flood, 

I  beheld  from  his  white  beak  unrolled. 
By  the  warm  summer  air, 
A  long  curl  of  bright  hair, 

A  brown  ringlet,  deep  tinted  with  gold. 

Just  such  ringlets  as  grow 
Above  foreheads  of  snow. 

Overshadowing  earnest  blue  eyes, 

As  the  morning  mist  shrouds. 
With  its  amber-hued  clouds, 

The  deep  light  of  Italian  skies. 

"  Tell  me,  bird,  didst  tliou  go 
Wliere  the  coral  reefs  grow, 
AtouikI  grottos  of  crystal  and  pearl, 
And  most  ruthlessly  tear 
That  ricli,  radiant  hair 
From  tlic  brow  of  some  fair  shipwrecked 
girl  ? 

"  Or  where  skeletons  bleach 
On  the  wide  barren  beach. 


When  upheaved  by  the  billowy  brine, 

Of  all  beauty  bereft, 

Was  that  frail  relic  left. 
With  its  life-mocking  luster  to  shine  ? 

^  Was  it  there  thou  didst  find, 
'Mid  the  damp  sea-weed  twined. 

That  rare  curl,  where  soft  ripples  once  fell 
On  a  breast  pure  and  white ;— - 
As  in  midsummer's  light. 

Dropping  down  in  some  stainless  sea-shell? 

'^  Strange  and  sad  doth  the  gleam 
Of  that  sunny  tress  seem. 

As  it  floats  o'er  thy  smooth,  sable  plume. 
Like  a  beautiful  ray 
From  the  soul  far  away. 

Trembling  still  round  its  dark  ocean  tomb. 

"  For  thy  mate  didst  thou  bring 
That  frail,  glittering  thing. 
To  be  twined  in  her  storm-beaten  nest, 
As  some  heavenly  thought 
In  its  holiness  wrought 
Through  the   dreams  of   a    sin-tortured 
breast? 

'^  Does  the  fond  mother  mourn 
For  that  fair  head,  now  shorn 

Of  its  splendor,  where  dark  billows  flow  ? 
Does  the  lullaby  still 
Through  her  memory  thrill. 

That  she  sang  to  her  child  long  ago  ? 

^  Does  she  think  of  that  time. 
When  the  sweet  Sabbath  chime 

Called  her  up  to  tiie  temple  of  prayer, — 
Of  'how  fondly  she  smiled. 
When  that  auburn-haired  child 

Knelt  beside  her  in  purity  there  ?  " 

Even  now  could  she  press 

That  long  glistening  tress 
To  her  sad  breast,  mcthinks  it  would  know 

That  those  soft  strands  were  shed 

From  the  beautiful  head 
She  had  pillowed  there  long,  long  ago. 


(>U8 


ROSA   VRRTNER   JOHNSON. 


[MB*. 


But  rarth'ri  children  must  grieve : 

AVlicther  cypn»ssi-l>ough9  weave 
0*er  thf'ir  lost  ones,  or  wild  8ea-binLs  reap 

Their  rich  treasures,  a  moan 

Goeth  up  to  God'8  throne, 
From  the  hearts  of  the  many  who  weep. 

Still  I  see  the  rich  curl 

Of  that  fair  shipwrecked  girl. 
Who  lios  shrouded  where  slorm-billows  roll, 

And  tliat  bird  grim  and  gaunt 

Shall  for  evcnnon*.  liuunt, 
Like  a  phantom,  the  depth  of  my  souL 


ONE  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

Onr  Summer  night  I  stood  with  thee, 
Bencutli  a  full  unclouded  moon  ; 


My  young  heart  then  was  wild  with  glee,    ^^^^j„  j,^^  Summer 


But  thou  didst  break  the  spell  loo  nsa. 

That  made  my  early  youth  to  hnpt 
I  found  thee  colder  than  the  aoo^ 

AVhose  beauty  aeemed    to   haaM  il 
night 
With  splendor,  till  the  nodding 

Were  half-awakened  by  its  ray. 
And  start I(h1  birds,  within  their 

Sang  sweetly,  dn^iuning  of  the  dbj— 

Of  warmth  and  suuUght — Ibol&ih  davt ! 

To  warble  'neath  a  moonlit  sky. 
As  was  my  heart  to  dream  of  lure, 

Iksneath  the  proud  glance  of  tUv  r 
That  looked  upon  it  but  to  wake 

Love*s  sweetetit  music,  wild  and  tta. 
To  leave — an  echo,  and  Ibrmke 

The  heart  while  yet  it  thrilled  ftr  * 

Long  yean  have  passed,  and  aov  m 
more 
I  stand  where  on  that  night  we 


And  basked  in  pleasure's  golden  noon ; 
My  dark  hair  fell  in  wavy  showers 
l'j)on  my  neck  and  o'er  my  bn»w. 


U|K)n  my  brow  their  silTeiy 
Tiie  siime  from  yon  calm  sky  they 
No  ciuuige  their  mellow  light  a 


All  g«innied  with  pearls  and  wreathed  with  gj^^^  ^^^  ^^^^  j,,^  spotless 

^^^'^'^-  !     Of  Eden's  bowers  they  softly 

Their  fragrance  seems  around  me  now.  j 

I  Yon  moon  has  never  lost  one  xmf 
A  rose-bud  from  my  Inisom  fell,  |      Since  first  she  lit  the  earth  and  mi^ 

As  thus  beneath  the  nioun  we  stood;       I  And  I  havi*  never  turned  away 
And  thou — ah!  1  n  ini.MulxT  well —  |     One  single  thought  of  lore 

Didst  niise  uiid  kiss  th«'  unnm scions  bud. ,  Since  on  tlmt  Summer  night 
Hut  not  uiicons<'UHis  was  tht*  heart 

Forever  thim^ — foivver  trut? ; 
And  in  thsit  hour  tht;  wish  would  start 

That  I  had  h«'en  a  n>se-hud  too. 


I  lon;itd  to  save  it  free  fnnn  blight, 

I  I<ni;:ed  to  k«-»-|»  that  can-less  ki>s. 
And  oil  I  I  uished  that  Sunnner  night, 

AVitii  all  its  bri^liini'^^  and  it.-^  bli-^s. 
Could  la>t  lonver; — 'tw.'us  no  crime. 

When  ;iil  tlir  nit)ni«-iils  tieil  so  fa>t. 
That  I  >Immi1i1  ui^h  to  fetter  time. 

And  live  tlifiii  over  as  they  pas8*d. 


But  now  the  moonbeams 
Around  me  with  a  sad 

As  if  they  misiwd  thee  from  my  ■ 


Tlit*  night-wind,  as  it  sweeps 

I  fancy  has  a  different  tone, 
And  the  hiw  burden  of  its  song 

Runs  ever  thus:  **  Alone!  akna! 
I  low  changed  the  earth«the  sky»the 

Sinc4>  that  too  vell-rpi 
When  ho|N'  sprang  up  lo 

And  pleasure  drowned 
chime. 


^j* 


1850-60.] 


ROSA   VERTNER   JOHNSON. 


609 


ANGEL  WATCHERS. 

A2<iG£L  faces  watch  my  pillow,  angel  voices 

haunt  my  sleep, 
And  upon  the  winds  of  midnight  shining 

pinions  round  me  sweep; 
Floating  downward  on  the  starlight  two 

bright  infant  forms  I  see — 
They  are  mine,  my  own   bright  darlings, 

come  fh)m  heaven  to  visit  me. 

Earthly  children  smile  upon  me,  but  those 

little  ones  above, 
Were  the  first  to  stir  the  fountains  of  a 

mother's  deathless  love, 
And,  as  now  they  watch  my  slumber,  while 

their  soft  eyes  on  me  shine, 
Grod  forgive  a  mortal  yearning  still  to  call 

his  angels  mine. 

Earthly  children  fondly  call  me,  but  no 

mortal  voice  can  seem 
Sweet  as  those  that  whisper  "  Mother ! " 

'mid  the  glories  of  my  dream ; 
Years  will  pass,  and  earthly  prattlers  cease 

perchance  to  lisp  my  name. 
But   my  angel   babies'  accents   shall   be 

evermore  the  same. 

And  the  bright  band  now  around  me,  from 

their  home  perchance  will  rove. 
In  their  strength  no  more  depending  on 

my  constant  care  and  love ; 
But  my  first-bom  still  shall  wander,  from 

the  sky  in  dreams  to  rest 
Their  soft  cheeks  and  shining  tresses  on  an 

earthly  mother's  breast. 

Time   may   steal  away  the  freshness,  or 

some  whelming  grief  destroy 
All  tlu*  hopes  that  erst  had  blossomed,  in 

my  summer-time  of  joy ; 
Earthly  children  may  forsake  me,  earthly 

friends  perhaps  betray. 
Every  tie  that  now  unites  me  to  this  life 

may  pass  away  ; — 


But,  unchanged,  those  angel  watchers,  from 

their  blessed  immortal  home, 
Pure  and  fair,  to  cheer  the  sadness  of  my 

darkened  dreams  shall  come. 
And  I  cannot  feel  forsaken,  for,  though 

'reft  of  earthly  love. 
Angel  children  call  me  "Mother I*  and 

my  soul  will  look  above. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  PRAYER. 

'Mid  the  deep  and  stifling  sadness,  the 

stillness  and  the  gloom, 
That  hung  a  vail  of  mourning  round  my 

dimly-lighted  room, 
I  heard  a  voice  at  midnight,  in  strange 

tones  of  anguish,  say : 
"Come  near  me,  dearest  mother!     Now, 

my  God,  O  let  me  pray ! " 
♦  ♦♦♦♦♦ 

He  prayed — and  dumb  with  anguish  did 

my  trembling  spirit  wait. 
Till  that  low  wail  had  entered  at  the  ever- 
lasting gate ; 
And  then  I  cried,  "O  Father!  throngs  of 

angels  dwell  with  thee. 
And  he  is  thine — but  leave  him  yet  a  little 

while  with  me! 

"  Two  buds  has  Azrael  plucked  fix>m  out 

the  garden  of  my  love, 
And  placed  them  in  the  living  wreath  that 

spans  thy  throne  above ; 
Twice  o'er  love's  consecrated  harp  have 

swept  his  cold,  dark  wings, 
And  when  I  touch  it  now,  alas  I  there  are 

two  broken  strings. 

"Twice   have  his   strong,  sharp  arrows 

pierced  the  lambs  within  my  fold, 
And  now  in  his  unerring  grasp  another 

shaft  behold ! " 
Two  prayers  went  up  at  midnight— -and 

the  last  so  full  of  woe, 
That  Grod  did  break  the  arrow  set  in  Az- 

rael's  shining  bow. 


39 


JULIA  AMANDA   WOOD. 


Minnie  Mart  Lee  is  the  literary  pseudonym  of  a  lady  whose 
Rapids,  on  the  Mississippi  river,  in  Minnesota.    Iler  ni«iiden  name  waa  JnUa  Ab 
Sargent.     Slie  is  a  native  of  New  London,  New  Hampshire,  where  she  va* 
about  the  year  1830.     Miss  Sargent  was  married  in  1849,  at    Coringtoa, 
to  William  Henry  Wood,  a  lawyer.     In  1851  Mr.  Wood  removed  to 
soon  aAer  was  ap|>ointi*d  I^nd  lieeeiver  at  Sauk  lipids.     He  and 
edit  a  weekly  paper,  published  at  Sauk  Rapids,  calle<l   The  Sew  Er^     IItl  1 
has  written  for  various  Western  pa|M.*r8,  and  for  Arihuf^M  Homm   Ma^amm, 
G.  Swisshelm,  in  a  notice  of  Mrs.  Wood  for  her  paper,  the  St,  Chmd  VL 
**  Slie  ap{)ear8  to  be  one  of  the  very  few  literary  women  who  are  happj  in 
relations,  and  who  have  not  fled  to  the  pen  to  get  away  from  the 
ness  of  some  crushing  misery.     Her  only  great  sorrow  appear*  lo 
death  of  her  first-boni,  whicli  leaves  her  but  one  child,  a  brighl  boj  of  ihier  i 
mers.     Her  pen  has  been  an  imjiortant  means  of  making  known  the 
beauty  and  many  resources  of  her  adopted  land.*" 


HER  GLOVE. 


It  is  the  glove  she  wore  so  long  ago. 

That  fitted  dtuntily  her  hand  of  snow, 

Tlie  hand  whose  cl&ip  it  was  such  joy  to  |  Her  name  was  Emilj, 


How  beauteoas  flowed 

ders  fair 
The  glorious  wealth  of  her 
Slioding  a  face  such  as  the 


know. 

She  was  a  bein^  radiant  as  the  dawn 
When  it  comes  forth  with  flush  of  glory 

on; 
O,  how  like  ni;rht  it  was  when  she  wa-* 

gont» ! 


My  pulses  thrill  whene'er  I 
I  spring  to  meet  one,  ai 


This  glove  has  biXNigfal 

to-day, 
\  Tntil  her  presence  doth 
As  if  her  spirit  had  just 


ihsa 


mt 


Sh»'   wa-i   the    qiiorn    of   all   our  festive  Some  years  have  gone 


niirtli: 
To  win  h»T  smih?,  onr  gntatest  care  was 

worth, 
For  never  was  a  sweeter  smile  on  earth. 


coldlv  down 

m 

V\ycm  those  starry  eyes  of 
liut   seas    of   time 
drown. 


(610) 


1850-60.] 


JULIA    AMANDA    WOOD. 


611 


Spanned  by  the  river  of  retumless  tide, 
The   space  between  us  is   not    &t  nor 

wide; 
I  hope  to  meet  her  on  the  other  side. 


PRAYER  FOR  MY  DYING  CHILD. 

Since  I  cannot  save  thee,  darling. 

Since  my  yearning  prayer  is  vain, 
While  my  heart  so  bleeding,  broken. 

Pours  o'er  thee  its  tearful  rain, 
Bends  my  soul  before  the  altar 

Of  our  Father's  golden  throne, 
Praying,  O  with  tones  that  falter. 

For  some  soul  to  guide  thine  own. 

Through  the  dark  and  shadowy  valley, 

O'er  the  river  chill  and  wild. 
Up  the  starry  steeps  of  soul-land 

Thou  wouldst  fear  and  faint,  my  child; 
Thou  so  young,  and  mild,  and  tender. 

Full  of  tears  when  mamma's  gone. 
How  couldst  bear  the  radiant  splendor 

That  at  last  should  o'er  thee  dawn  ? 

Send  some  spirit,  Father  holy, 

Down  to  guide  my  fainting  dove; 
There  is  one  among  Thine  angels 

Who  was  once  my  child  of  love ; 
Like  his  eyes  so  blue  and  wondrous, 

Are  the  eyes  of  dying  grace ; 
Browned  hair  like  his,  and  golden. 

Falls  around  her  pallid  face. 

Shall  not  he  with  gentle  coming. 

Fold  his  wing  beside  her  bed. 
Clasp  her  soul  to  his,  so  saintly. 

Ere  we  call  our  blossom  dead  ? 
Ah,  mcthinks  I  feel  tiie  presence — 

Now  I  bow  me  to  the  rod ; 
Christ,  give  pardon  for  my  sorrow 

Tiiat  my  darhngs  are  with  Grod. 


THERE  IS  A  LIGHT. 

There  is  a  light  within  my  soul, 

A  beauteous  gush  of  light, 
That  lately  o'er  me  sweetly  stole. 

Most  wondrously  and  bright — 
That  wraps  me  in  delicious  gleams 

More  purely,  softly,  tender. 
Than  e'er  came  o'er  me  in  the  dreams, 

That  had  their  dawn  in  splendor. 

'Tis  not  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star, 

All  glorious  though  they  be ; 
It  breaketh  not  from  world  afar 

This  blessed  light  on  me — 
It  is  more  soft,  subduing,  clear. 

Entrancing  in  its  flow. 
Most  like  that  light  of  spirit-sphere 

Which  dawneth  not  below. 

Clouds  never  lower  in  that  pure  dime, 

The  rain-drops  never  fall. 
But  steadily  and  ever  shines 

That  light  most  bright  of  all. 
It  is  the  light  that  each  fond  heart 

Doth  kindle  by  its  love. 
And  who  shall  say  this  is  not  part 

Of  all  the  bliss  above  ? 

0  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky,  and  air, 
Are  lighter  for  this  light. 

And  even  birds  and  flowers  fair 
Are  more  than  ever  bright 

1  tremble  in  its  presence  sweet 
That  every  ill  doth  banish. 

Lest,  'mid  all  things  so  frail  and  fleet, 
This,  too,  should  darkly  vanish. 

Thou  chosen  one,  who  giv'st  this  light 

O'er  all  my  being  thrown. 
Without  which  day  is  darkest  night, 

Thou — beautiful — my  own — 
O  wilt  thou,  in  the  coming  years. 

Be  my  sole  light  as  now. 
And  all  the  way  through  smiles  and  tears 

Give  sunshine  to  my  brow  ? 


GORDON  A.  STEWART. 


Gordon  A.  Stkwakt  was  bom  on  the  eighteenth  of  April,  IdSS,  i 
Ohio,  and  has  always,  by  residence,  literary  efTurt  and  aflection,  been  i 
the  interests  of  the  State  and  of  the  West.     lie  has  been  udeooiate  editor  of 
Bepuhiican,  but  in  now  engaged  at  Kenton,  in  the  practice  of  the  law,  to 
admitted  in  1855.     A  year  or  two  aAerward,  he  was  married  ;  bat  hi» 
whom  he  was  most  tenderly  attached,  dieil  within  a  year  from  tlieir 
^  Tlie  Spirit-Bride,"  Mr.  Stewart  beautifully  touches  upon  the 
hiti  lite.     The  looking-forward,  however,  which  characterizefl  this 
many  others  that  he  has  written.     A  deep  religious  feeling 
erary  point  of  view  his  verses  are  graceful,  with  occasional  mari^ed 
sion ;  with  here  and  tliere  an  absence  of  mind  in  regard  to  the 
art— of  which  probubly  no  one  is  more  conscious  than  the  poet  hinueIC 

Mr.  Stewart  ardently  believes  in  a  western  literature,  and  has 
ken  a  shining  lance  in  honor  of  it.     His  chief  exploit  in  the 
in  18.')4,  called  '*  Autorial  Life  in  the  West,**  in  which  he  portrajs  the 
bilities  suppos^ed  to  exist  here. 


the& 


THE  sriRIT-BRIDK. 

Many  think  that  Heaven  is  fur 
Ht»yond  the  light  of  the  nioniing  star — 
Tliiit  cycling  suns  its  guardians  are ! 

But  who  think  fo,  conld  nov«*r  have  known 
The  ]):ings  of  the  heart,  letl  in  (krkness 

alone, 
Ui>!)b'd  of  tlie  light  that  round  it  shone! 

!  IravtMi  is  nearer  than  they  sn|»|K>se, 
!'nr,  putting!  iL^de  tlifir  eartlily  rlothes, 
rin-v  hiy  down  in  its  sweet  h'jmjm?. 


Ilf:i\rii  is  nearer  than  they  suf«peet, 
l'\>r  did  th<'y  but  a  moment  retlect, 
Tht-v  niittht  h«*ar  voiws  of  Gobi's  eh*ot, 


»Sin^ng  His  pnuse  in 

At  the  feet  of  the  Great  «*I 

Around  the  croaa  of  the 

Tis  no  lone  isle  in 
AV hence    loved 

again 
To  as>uage  our  sorrow,  or  ei 

No !  Tis  a  world  near  allied 
For  the  eye  that 

this. 
May  o|H*n  the  next,  in 


iDllVi 


Karh  praying  soul  1 
To  which  it  may  d 

night. 
And  behold  the  hud  of 

(612) 


1850-60.] 


GORDON    A.   STEWART. 


613 


And   there  are   times,  on  this  mundane 

sphere, 
When  the  weary  soul  can  distinctly  hear 
The  rustling  robes  of  an  angel  near ! 

Ah,  one  who  on  earth  did  pain  endure, 
One  who  has  made  her  calling  sure, 
One  who  has  kept  her  election  pure, 

Comes  to  me  now,  and  stands  by  my  side; 
She,  who  was  once  my  earthly  bride. 
She,  who  is  now  my  spiritual  guide. 

Her  delicate  form  I  plainly  trace-, 
I  see  a  smile  on  her  love-lit  face. 
And  I  fold  her  again  in  love's  embrace! 

Her  head  once  more  I  have  gently  press'd 
Close  to  my  throbbing,  aching  breastr— 
There,  O  God,  could  she  ever  rest  I 

To  me  now  she  is  more  than  ever  divine ! 
Her  sweet  soft  eyes  looking  into  mine. 
Drunken  my  soul  with  delicious  wine ! 

God  once  gave  me  a  joy  like  this ! 
I  lave  again  in  His  bountiful  bliss. 
And  raise  her  lips  for  a  melting  kiss ! 

But  she  has  eluded  my  fond  embrace, 
And  stands  by  my  side  with  a  sorrowful 

face, 
Saying,  "  Come  to  God's  mercifiil  throne 

of  grace ; 

"  Christ  will  bind  up  thy  broken  heart, 
And  a  new  life  to  thy  soul  impart ; 
Come  to  Him,  husband,  just  as  thou  art ! " 

I  am  holding  again  her  proffered  hand, — 
I  hear  the  songs  of  the  angel  band, 
For  we  are  near  to  the  heavenly  land ! 

Again  we  are  standing,  side  by  side, 
1,  a  mortal  groom — she,  a  spirit-bride, 
Awaiting  the  flow  of  Eternity's  tide! 


JUNE. 

A  BREEZY  landscape  from  my  window 
lies, — 
The  woods  and  fields  all  dress'd  in  richest 

green. 
Tremblingly   glisten    in    the   morning 
sheen, 
And  fleecy  clouds  afloat  the  azure  skies. 
Now  and  anon  there  steals  into  my  room 
The  pure  breath  of  the  morning,  full 
and  sweet 
With  fragrance  of  the  wheat  and  clover 
bloom; 
Then  passing,  like  an  angel,  through  the 
street, 
It  whispers  to  the  poor  nnhungered  soul 

Of  harvests,  rich,  and  bountiful,  and  rare. 
That  soon  shall  ripen,  and  by  manly  toil 
Gladden  the  hearts  of  thousands  every- 
where. 
Such  are  the  scenes  that  tell  us  Jane  is  here, 
The  month  of  flowers,  the  promise  of  the 
year. 


AFTER-BLOOK. 

We  treasure  the  flowers  of  old  summers, 
Their  fragrance  is  haunting  the  room ; 

We  gaze  at  the  vase  on  the  mantle, 
Around  it  float  airs  of  lost  bloonL 

Though  we  rise  out  of  grief's  dark  winter. 
Though  joy  kisses  sorrow  throngh  tears ; 

Yet  we  sigh  for  the  rose-lipped  pleasures 
We  pluck  with  the  flowers  of  lost  years. 

But  never  returns  the  last  summer. 
Though  spring  kisses  winter  away ; — 

Our  hearts  are  renewed  with  the  fragrance 
Of  flowers  that  we  gather  to-day. 

The  flowers  of  to-day  are  the  purer. 
Baptised  with  love's  morning  dew; 

And  the  lingering  perfume  of  old  ones 
Is  lost  in  the  sweets  of  the  new. 


SARAU  E.  WALLACE. 


Sarah  £.  Wallace,  daughter  of  J.  C  Elston,  one  of  the  earlj  and  ■ 
settli'rs  of  Iiidiuiia,  was  born  at  Crawfordsville,  in  that  State,  in  tlie  Jtmr  183& 
1852  she  was  murrivd  to  Lewis  Wallace  of  Indianapolis.  Her  poem*  aie  chvi 
ized  by  sweet  womanly  feeling  and  fancy,  and  poetic  grace  of  rTprcMMML  IWi 
peared  originally  in  the  Cincinnati  Gazette^  and,  their  author  avoiding 
seeking  reputation,  were  submitted  to  the  editor  without  name  or  dale. 


THE  PATTER  OF  LITTLE  FEET. 

Up  with  the  sun  at  morning 

Away  to  the  garden  he  hies, 
To  see  if  the  slet^py  blossoms 

Have  begun  to  oiM.*n  their  eyes ; 
Running  a  race  with  the  wind. 

His  step  as  light  and  fleet, 
Under  my  window  I  hear 

The  patter  of  little  fecL 

Anon  to  the  brook  he  wanders 

In  switl  and  noiseless  flight, 
Splashing  the  sparkling  ripples 

Like  a  fairy  water-sprite. 
No  sand  under  fabled  river 

Has  gleams  like  his  golden  hair; 
No  |>carly  sea-shell  is  fairer 

Than  his  slender  ankles  bare ; 
Nor  the  rosiest  stem  of  coral, 

That  blushes  in  Oi-ean's  bed, 
Is  sweet  as  the  flush  tliat  follows 

Our  darling's  airy  tread. 

From  a  broad  window  my  neighbor 

Looks  down  on  our  little  cot, 
Ami  wati'hes  the  "poor  man*s  blessing;' 

I  cannot  envy  his  lot. 
Ilr  has  pictures,  lKK)k>,  and  music, 

Bright  fountains,  and  noble  trees. 
Flowers  that  bh)Ssonj  in  vases, 

Birds  fi*oni  beyond  the  seas ; 


But  never  doei  chiUiali 

Uis  homeward  ibolatcp  fiuj^ 
His  stately  hall*  ne'er  echo 

The  tread  of  innoeent  feat 


This  child  is  our  ^ 

A  birdling  that  chattera 
Sometimes  a  **  slee|iing 

(Our  other  one  has  wiagi) ; 
His  heart  is  a  channiU 

Full  of  all  that'*  cunniog 
And  DO  harpstring*  hold 

As  follows  his  twinkling 


When  the  glory  of 

The  highway  by  angeb  tradt 
And  seems  to  unbar  tbe  City 

Whose  Builder  and  Maker  ■  Gd 

Close  to  the  crystal  poctalt 

I  sec  by  the  gates  of 
The  eyes  of  our  other 

A  twin-bom  little  girL 


And  I  a«k  to  be  taught  and 

To  guide  hw  fbotAe|ia  arigK 
So  that  I  be  aoooanted  worthf 

To  walk  in  sandab  of  1^; 
And  hear  amid  songs  of 

From  messengeta  tratlj 
On  the  starry  floor  oP  Hea^ 

The  patter  of  littla 


(614) 


L     . 


1850-60.] 


SARAH    E.    WALLACE. 


615 


THE  SINGING  TREE.* 

The  night  is  filled  with  beauty — 
Moonbeams,  still  and  fleet, 
Have  silvered  each  trodden  path, 
And  paved  with  pearl  the  street, 
The  spreading  maple  at  my  door 
Is  a  weird  and  wondrous  tree, 
For  all  night  long  it  singeth 
Sweetest  songs  to  me. 

'Tis  many  years  since  first  I  stood 
In  the  changeful  light  and  shade 
Of  its  leaves  and  blossoms  dancing, 
While  the  merry  breezes  played — 
The  air  was  sheen  and  perfume, 
Enchantment  all  to  me, 
I  dwelt  in  a  sinless  Eden 
Beneath  a  magicpl  tree. 

Soon  the  sound  of  little  voices, 
And  the  touch  of  little  hands, 
Brought  us  yet  closer  together, 
Bound  us  in  living  bands. 
The  bright  years  chased  each  other 
Till  precious  children — three, 

Airily  swung, 

Like  blossoms  sprung, 
From  the  heart  of  the  graceful  tree. 

Our  life  had  reached  its  full. 
Its  warm  deep  summer-time. 
When  he  died — my  beloved — 
In  the  strength  of  manhood's  prime. 
That  bitter,  bitter  grief 
May  not  be  written  or  told ; 
It  bowed  my  head  to  the  dust 
And  silvered  its  "  paly  gold." 

My  children  were  lefl  awhile. 
They  grew  in  strength  and  pride, 
1  knelt  in  wild  idolatry, 
I  knew  no  world  beside. 


*  ''  Here  he  found  the  talking  bird,  the  singiog  tree,  and 
the  yellow  water.'' — Arabian  Nights. 


Their  pretty  words,  their  baby  ways 
Ah !  how  can  I  e'er  forget ! 
The  light  in  their  dying  eyes — 
It  wrung  my  heart — 'tis  bleeding  yet. 

Glorious,  golden  Autumn 
Flashed  far  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
Like  a  radiant  Princess  crowned 
E'er  she  kneels  to  take  the  vail. 
And  friendly  winds,  like  redbreasts, 
Sprinkled  the  dying  sod 
With  brown  and  crimson  leaves. 
And  flowers  of  golden-rod ; 
And  soflly  sings  a  requiem 
Of  rarest  melody. 
To  a  child  who  stood  alone 
Under  the  singing  tree. 

My  only  boy — how  I  madly  wept, 
How  I  vainly  tried  to  pray ! 
But  the  silver  cord  was  loosed, 
My  pearls  were  dropping  away. 
Spring  came  and  hung  the  maple 
With  plumes  that  waved  in  pride; 
June  bloomed,  and  faded — swanlike, 
Sweetest  the  hour  she  died — 
When  I  looked  in  my  baby's  face 
And  saw  that  soon  must  he — 
The  last  and  loveliest  one- 
Sleep  under  the  faithful  tree. 
Swiflly,  surely  his  life  went  out. 
The  last  strong  link  was  riven ; 
There  stood  no  love  for  living  thing 
Between  my  heart  and  Heaven. 

Such    nights — such     holy    nights    as 

the^e — 
^  I  cannot  make  them  dead ; " 
They   break    the  bands  of  dreamless 

sleep. 
They  leave  their  earthy  bed. 
I  hear  each  well-known  step 
As  they  come  about  my  knee. 
And  the  voices  loved  so  well 
Are  the  songs  of  the  singing  tree. 


ROSELLA   RICE. 


I 


I 


RosELLA  Rick  is  a  native  of  Ashland  countj,  Ohia  Her  fiuher, 
wa.M  among  the  earliest  settlers  at  Perr}'sville,  and  Rosella  has  alwajs 
old  homestead,  where  she  was  bom,  about  the  year  1830.  Miss  Rice  is 
and  has  nursed  her  strange,  wild  fancies,  amid  the  e<jually  wild  hills 
rocky  caves  which  she  has  hauntcMl  with  a  devotion  that  has  amoanted  to  «  Eic 
sion.  Meeting  with  but  few  a'^sociates  who  could  appreciate  the  deplh  of  her  pM 
for  such  communings,  her  spirit  was  wont  to  retire  within  heraeil^ 
called  forth  by  tlie  presence  of  the  sylvan  gwU  among  whom  she 
early  contributions  to  the  county  papers  are  marked  by  her  own  mde^ 
original  characteristics.  Coming  but  little  in  contact  with  the  world  a 
built  upon  ideal  models,  wherever  she  departed  from  her  own  originaL 
lias  read  much  and  well,  and  within  the  last  few  years  has  visited  the  widi 
siderably.  She  has  contributed  to  Arthur*9  Home  Magazine^  Philadelphia^ 
eral  of  the  Cleveland,  Columbus,  and  other  papers  in  Ohio.  Her  prose 
ways  attract  attention  and  secure  a  wide  circulation,  from  their  pecnliar  or^iaal  vi 
and  directness.  In  1859  she  published  a  consid<*rable  volume,  entitled  '^XsW 
Heart  Histories,  a  Novel,"  from  the  press  of  Follett,  Foster  ds  Company,  of  Coh 
bus,  Ohio. 


CHARLIE  LEE. 

I  WILL  whisper,  Charlie  Lee, 
Olden  memories  to  thee ; 
Tell  thee  of  the  alder  shade 
Where  we  two  together  played. 
How  the  bended  l>ougli  we  nxle. 
Till  our  ruddy  fiiC(*:i  glowed — 
Thrn  our  horses  teth«*red  fast 
Till  the  weary  lesson  past, 
Light  again,  we  bounded  free — 
Little  Hose,  and  Charlie  Lee. 

I  will  whispi*r,  Charlie  Lee, 
Other  st<»rit»s  unt«»  thre; 
Tell  thee  of  the  tivi\<^y  niojids 
AVhere  wliite  lilies  haiiK  their  heads. 


Where  sweet-williami  psyle 

And  low  violets 
Where  the  pinkj- 
Nodding,  scattered  toft 
And,  with  dimpled 
Roved  delighted. 


1616) 


I  will  whisper,  Chazlie  Lecb 
Tn*asured  stories  onto  thee; 
How  we  waded  in  the  iflt 
Panting,  dambered  op  the  Ul 
'Mong  the  lithe 
Sobbing  low  to 
From  the  leaves  of 
Berries  of  a  crimsoi 
Chatting  gaily,  gathered 
In  aprons  tinj,  CharGe 


1850-60.] 


ROSELLA    RICE 


617 


I  will  whisper,  Charlie  Lee, 
Other  stories  unto  thee— 
Dost  remember  how  I  longed 
For  the  highest  blooms,  where  thronged 
Humming-birds  and  yellow  bees, 
On  the  rough  crab-apple  trees  ? 
And  the  limbs  so  gnarled,  there 
Caught  thy  curls  of  golden  hair; 
But  thy  laugh  rang  out  in  glee— 
Noble-hearted  Charlie  Lee. 

I  have  whispered,  Charlie  Lee, 
Childish  stories  unto  thee— 
Manhood's  seal  is  on  thy  brow, 
And  thou  carest  little  now 
For  our  childhood's  sunny  time, 
Like  unto  a  rippling  rhyme, 
That  we  lisped  in  baby  years, 
Ere  we  knew  of  hopes  and  fears ; 
Sunniest  hours !  how  blest  were  we — 
Little  Rose,  and  Charlie  Lee. 


THE  NIGHT  WIND^S  REVEL. 

Comes  the  wild  wind  round  the  comer, 
Like  the  piteous  wail  of  mourner;  — 
Tis  of  one,  a  mother  weeping, 
O'er  the  crib  where  lieth  sleeping 
The  babe  whose  slumber  is  unwaking. 
Though  the  mother's  heart  be  breaking. 
How  like  her  wail,  thou  mocking  wind ! 
Ah,  lonesome  night !     Ah,  mocking  wind ! 

Comes  the  wild  wind  round  the  comer. 

Like  the  frenzied  wail  of  moumer : — 

'Tis  of  one  whose  heart  is  broken. 

But  whose  woe  is  else  unspoken. 

Gliid  hands  that  reached  for  treasures  rare, 

Poor  hands  that  found  but  empty  air — 

Tightly  chisp  together  now. 

O'er  a  throbbing,  burning  brow  I 

lluw  liku  her  wail,  thou  treach'rous  wind ! 

Ah,  lonesome  night,  and  mocking  wind ! 


Comes  the  wild  wind  round  the  comer, 
Like  the  piteous  sob  of  mourner ; 
From  wail  and  shriek  it  falleth  now 
Sinking  down  to  sobbing  low. 
'Tis  of  one  whose  pathway  led 
Among  green  graves  of  silent  dead. 
Who  loved  to  sit  where  willows  weep  I 
Ah,  faithless  winds,  thy  sobs  sound  so^ 
Mournfully,  like  her  sobbing  low  I 

Come  night  winds  like  weeping  mourners, 
Wailing,  sobbing,  round  the  comers ! 
Come  with  soughs,  and  shrieks,  and  cries. 
Mad  minions  of  the  stormy  skies ! — 
Though  the  weeper's  wail  ye  bear, 
And  mock  the  frenzy  of  despair, 
Jubilant  bear  the  tearful  moan. 
The  quivering  sigh,  and  dying  groan ; 
Though  your  wails  unearthly  be, 
And  your  crying  paineth  me. 

Yet  I  close  my  eyes  and  pray, 
With  my  wandering  thoughts  away, — 
Away  in  dark  and  desolate  homes. 
Where  pale  sorrow,  sad-eyed,  comes. 
Whence  the  piteous  cries  go  out. 
Caught  up  by  the  wild  wind's  rout. 
And  borne,  sad  notes,  on  wings  along, 
Commingling  in  exultant  song  I 


SPIRITS  OF  THE  WILDWOOD. 

Where  the  wanderer's  foot  hath  seldom 

trod — 
Where  scarce  a  thought,  unless  of  Grod, 
Could  fill  the  heart,  oh,  then  and  there 
The  wildwood  spirits  fill  the  air  I 

Within  the  glen,  upon  the  hill. 
The  waterfall,  the  tinkling  rill, 
Within  the  vale  embosomed  deep 
By  trees  and  vines,  and  rocky  steep, 
Alone  in  deep,  sweet  solitude. 
Dwell  the  wild  spirits  of  the  wood. 


GEORGE  TRUE. 


Gkorge  Truk,  a  native  of  Mount  Vernon,  Knox  county,  Ohio^  was  bora  d 
tho  year  1830.  His  father  was  one  of  the  pioneer  preachers  of  eenind 
still  a  citizen  of  Mount  Venum.  George  True  wrote  respectable  vcrw 
and  1>e('ame  a  favorite  contributor  to  the  itHinty  pa|)eni,  as  well  as  the 
Rclecteil  poet  for  whatever  local  ceIebration.s  description,  ur  story,  in  vera 
propriate.  In  January,  185G,  Mr.  True  became  the  publisher  of  Tkt  finusss/ 
Wett^  at  Cincinnati,  and  when  be  dii^continued  that  magazine,  in  June  of  ibt  s 
year,  i*onnected  himsi'lf  with  the  editorial  de|)artmcnt  of  the  Toiedo  (Obio) 
which  capacity  he  Ls  now  employed. 


DAWN. 


I. 


From  the  upland  and  the  meadow 

Failed  darkness'  gloomy  vail ; 
Night  was  Heeing,  light  was  coming. 

And  the  stars  were  growing  pale. 
All  night  long  had  weary  watchers, 

Hy  a  couch  of  restlet^s  pain, 
Heard  a  faint  voice  ask  the  (question: 

**  When  will  morning  come  again  ?  " 

II. 

Watched  the  blushing  sky.  as  morning 

CliinlM'd  the  rugged  eastern  hills, 
"Waited,  tremblingly,  his  coming, 

Crowned  with  golden  daffiMlils. 
Softer  ryi's  were  turmnl  with  longing 

Towjini  the  hill-tops'  dusky  brown  ; 
FaipT  tresses  than  the  sunbeams 

AVaite^l  an  immortal  crown. 

III. 

Oil!  how  «*arnestly  out-gazing 

W.Ui'IumI  those  ey<*s,  as  high  and  higher 
Cnpt  tin-  rosrati*  ting«\  till  softly 

r»umed  the  niountain-top<  with  fire; 


Till  the  sweep  of  light's 
Like  a  molten  sen  of  gold. 

Burst  the  mountain- wall,  and 
All  the  plain  ltd  richness  raUs^ 


IT. 

Very  oAen  had  that  faint 

Falling  fainter  every  daj, 
Wis)i(.*d  for  morning's  niddj 

Wished  the  shadows  all  awaj. 
Verv  ot\en  toward  the 

Had  those  spiritual  eyes 
Turned,  with  gaze  each  day 

Watched  the  mom-a 

V- 

Hers  that  look,  8o  calm  and 

Though  with  pallor  stiaagdy 
Hers  that  love,  like  heaTcnly 

On  the  desert  earth  eshalei 
Hers  the  graceei,  such  as  only 

Crown  the  kively,  pore 
Who,  before  they  enter 

Have  put  on  their 


Higher  still  the  ran 
Showed  his  broad 


(61H) 


1850-60.] 


GEORGE   TRUE. 


619 


Higher  swelled  the  golden  river, 
Flowing  from  the  mountains  down ; 

Bathed  that  light  the  dewy  flowers, 
Crowned  them  all  with  jewels  rare, 

Till  above  the  hills  the  billows 
Surged  and  filled  all  the  air. 

VII. 

She  a  mother,  who  so  faintly 

Through  the  long  night  wished  for  day, 
From  her  lips  that  loving  spirit, 

Witli  a  blessing,  passed  away. 
Cla.<ped  her  infant  boy  once  fondly, 

Smiled  to  see  the  promised  dawn — 
Then  awoke  she  in  that  morning 

Which  forever  shineth  on. 

VIII. 

Through  the  flower-encircled  casement 

Streamed  the  full  tide  of  the  mom. 
And  witliin  that  cottage  chamber 

Crowned  two  souls  to  life  new-born. 
One  to  tread  earth's  rugged  pathway — 

His  a  weary  lot,  at  best ; 
But  the  mother's  dawn  of  glory 

Ushered  in  her  day  of  rest. 


HARVEST  SONG. 

Swing — swing — swing ! 

Our  heavy  cradles  ring ; 

When  the  dew-drops  hang  on  the  bending 
corn. 

And  cool  is  the  breezy  breath  of  mom, 

And  our  hearts  a  lightsome  joyance  feel 

'Mid  the  rustling  grain  and  the  ring  of  the 

steel. 

Swing — swing — swing ! 

Our  Harvest  Song  we're  singing, 

Our  cradles  bright,  in  the  morning  light, 

Through  the  golden  flelds  are  ringing. 

Swing — swing — swing ! 
Our  sharpening  rifles  ring 


On  our  dew-wet  blades,  when  a  swath  we've 

laid. 
And  across  the  field  a  furrow  made, 
A  golden  furrow  of  ripened  grain 
Which  the  binders  gather  with  might  and 

main. 
Then  swing — swing — swing! 

Our  Harvest  Song  we're  singing ; 
With  a  gladsome  shout  we'll  face  about. 

Our  cradles  blithely  swinging. 

Swing — swing — swing ! 
The  beaded  pitcher  bring 
From  the  spring  in  the  hollow,  all  dripping 

and  cool, 
Where  the  grape-vine  hangs  o'er  the  clear 

deep  pool. 
No  burning  draughts  from  the  poisonous  still 
Want  we,  our  harvest  strength  to  kilL 
We'll  swing— swing — swing! 

While  our  Harvest  Song  we're  singing, 
No  help  we'll  borrow,  the  price  of  sorrow 
And  degradation  bringing. 

Swing— swing— swing ! 
Till  the  bells  in  the  city  ring ; 
Or  over  the  whispering  fields  of  com 
Is  heard  the  sound  of  the  dinner  horn — 
Then  we'll  find  how  sweet  hard  labor  can 
Make  the  bread  of  the  working  man ; 
And  swing — swing — ^swing ! 

Our  Harvest  Song  still  singing, 
With  health  renewed  by  healthful  food 
Again  our  cradles  swinging. 


Swing— swing — swing  I 
More  wearily  we  sing 

With  shorter  breath  our  lagging  tone. 

In  the  stifling  heat  of  the  afteraoon ; 

But,  rallying  at  the  set  of  sun, 

We  shout,  "Hurra!  our  harvest's  done!" 
Our  Harvest  Song  we  now  have  sung : 
Our  cradles  in  their  places  hung : 
There,  with  a  final  parting  cheer, 
We'll  leave  them  till  another  year. 


MART  R.  T.  M'AVOY. 


The  letters  "M.  R.  M.*'  arc  well  known  to  the  readers  of  the 
the  Memphis  Enquirer^  The  Genius  of  the  Westy  and  ChaUen*»  IBwuiraUd 
publinhed  in  Philadelphia.    They  represent  Mary  R.  T.  McAvoj,  of  Parity  Boni 
county,  Kentucky,  who,  since  1850,  has  written  very  pleasant  poems  fiir  tlie 

pcrs  and  magazines  mentioned. 


MADELEINE. 

The  moon  is  up— -the  night  is  waning  fast, 
My  l)oat  is  anchored  by  the  i)ebbled  shore, 
And  I  have  lingered  here  to  look  my  last. 
Upon  the  home  that  may  be  ours  no  more ; 
To  keep  again  an  old  familiar  tryste, 
To  chisp  thy  gentle  hand  once  more  in 

mine. 
And  braid  thy  hair  with  flowers  by  night- 
dews  kiss'd, 
While  o'er  thy  upturned  brow  the  young 

stars  shine, 

Madeleine. 

Dost  thou  recall  to-night   the   beauteous 

time, 
Wh(*n  in  these  fragrant  woods  I  met  thee 

first: 
While  faintly  fell  the  vesper's  holy  chime, 
Thy  maiden  charms  upon  my  vision  burst. 
The  sun  was  setting  in  a  golden  glow. 
His  partin<]^  glance  beiuued  bright  on  flow- 
er and  tree ; 

A  roseate  hue  had  tinged  the  mountain 
snow, 

But  tliese  were  naught,  for  thou  wert  all 
to  me, 

Madeh'ine. 


And  then  my  inmost  qnrit  dodi 

The  tender  glances  of  thj  aool-fil  cfb 

The  west  wind  dallies  with  fSdj 

fold, 
Beneath  the  arch  where  mjitle 

meet. 
And  soflly  fans  thy  ringIeC*t  wswy  |ri( 
That  almost  ripple  to  thj  tiny  fed^ 


And  then  I  bear  the  fall. 

Of  the  deep  organ  in  the  old 

And  thy  dear  voioe  that  aoftlj  IVH  ■ 

fell, 
More  sweet  to  me  than  teiaphli  •■■■  A 

while ; 
I  start  to  hear  the  cannon'a  boowaf  hh 
The  ckish  of  steel    npoa   the  deep  m 

sea, 
The  conflict's  roar  the 

drowned. 
The  war-cloud  dimmed  that  * 

thee. 


UaiMe 


Yet  pledge  onoe 

we  part, 
While  o*er  thy  upturned 

stars  shine, 


ll(»\v  <iri  to  nie,  ujMm  the  battle's  eve.  In  fearless  faith,  to         thy 

That  picture  i}^  the  pit^t  comes  floating  by,  Ere  sails  our  ship  acn   athe 

(  620  ) 


1850-60.] 


MARY   R.    T.    McAVOY 


621 


The  moon  is  up,  the  night  is  waning  fast, 
My  boat  is  anchored  by  the  pebbled  shore, 
And  I  have  lingered  here  to  look  my  last. 
Upon  the  home  that  may  be  ours  no  more, 

Madeleine. 


SERENADE. 

The  Minstrel  sang  in  the  orient  land 

Of  the  zephyr's  balmy  sigh, 
And  the  flowers  that  gorgeously  expand 

Beneath  a  cloudless  sky ; 
But  I,  as  I  wander,  wake  a  song, 

To  the  glad  rejoicing  rain, 
That  patters,  and  pours,  and  sweeps  along. 

Till  the  old  woods  ring  again ; 
To  the  stormy  dash  and  the  diamond  flash 

Of  the  bright  resounding  rain  I 

Hurra !  hurra !  for  the  royal  rain, 

With  its  wild  and  gleesome  shout, 
As  over  valley  and  hill  and  plain 

It  idly  roams  about. 
Wooing  each  spring  and  gushing  rill 

With  myriad,  musical  words. 
Sweeter  than  all  the  songs  that  fill 

The  haunts  of  the  forest  birds — 
Ah !  sweeter  than  eveiy  sound  of  earth 

Those  myriad,  musical  words. 

Sweet  was  the  minstrel's  antique  strain. 

Of  green  and  starlit  bowers ; 
But  sweeter  the  sound  of  the  gentle  rain, 

That  wakens  the  sleeping  flowers. 
That  freshens  each  mossy,  shaded  bank. 

Where  the  leaves  are  springing  up. 
And  fills  with  nectar  the  woodland  tank 

For  the  fairies'  acorn  cup. 
The  bright  rejoicing  rain  that  falls. 

Where  the  flowers  are  springing  up. 


Ah !  maiden,  wake  fVom  thy  drowsy  dreams. 

Dost  hear  the  rippling  rain  ? 
List  to  its  myriad,  musical  themes, 

As  it  sweeps  across  the  plain ; 
It  brings  a  song  for  the  silent  streams, 

A  blush  for  the  folded  flowers, 
And  whispers  low  of  the  sunny  beams 

That  follow  the  genial  showers. 
Then  waken,  oh !  waken,  maiden  fair, 

Awake  with  the  dreaming  flowers. 


IT  IS  THE  WINTER  OF  THE  YEAR. 

It  is  the  winter  of  the  year. 

On  buried  flowers  the  snow-drifts  lie. 
And  clouds  have  vailed  with  ashen  gray. 

The  blueness  of  the  summer  sky. 
No  brooks  in  babbling  ripples  run — 

No  birds  are  singing  in  the  hedge — 
No  violets  nodding  in  the  sun. 

Beside  the  lakelet's  frozen  edge ; 
Yet  unto  bruised  and  broken  boughs. 

Freshly  the  greenest  mosses  cling, 
And  near  the  winter's  stormy  verge, 

Floateth  the  fragrant  bloom  of  Spring. 

It  is  the  winter  of  my  life, 

On  buried  flowers  the  snow-drifts  lie. 
And  clouds  have  vailed  with  ashen  gray, 

The  blueness  of  my  summer  sky. 
No  light  steps  cross  my  threshold  stone, 

No  voice  of  love  my  ear  doth  greet, 
No  gentle  hands  enclasp  mine  own, 

With  cordial  welcome  fond  and  sweet ; 
Yet  unto  bruised  and  broken  hearts. 

The  words  of  tenderest  promise  cling, 
And  floateth  near  Time's  stormy  verge, 

The  bloom  of  everlasting  Spring. 


«#4 


FRANCES  A.   SH; 


VlUk3tCM»  A.  SUA'm  is  m  nalirc  of  Maine,  whose  fatll 
'Am  hNpe  uf  ralrieriDg  n  «luUIrrTil  fiirtunR,  bul  Hulin^  in 
l««viMg  In*  wMow  and  aix  cliildren  in  circuiiMtaiiua  whii 
ui  tlw  oUer  uiws  la  inukL-  liante  iximfurlnblt;  and  happj. 
•lOj  (^liKaud.  aoil  liaa  lumed  that  eilucalion  lo  good  ai-ct 
wtxvUi  *«rMa  in  ber  earlier  yoaih,  and  bi-r  Muse  hu  (i> 
•bmn^  lEgewli  and  romantic  «wuery  uf  (liv  Upper  itim 
baluk"  <na  originally  publinhed  in  The  GtHtut  of  1A4 
UibuMd  Er«iacntly  lo  Illinois  papers,  and  ia  • 


t  PfNMlj 


IIISNKHAHA.' 

Where  a  M 

unfoldM 

TwAfl  a  beauteous  day  in  sninmer.  gliid- 

That  eiilhrnl 

ticaa  Uirilled  the  balmy  air, 

wildan^ 

Lj^bllv  ibuic«d  the  zcpbyn  round  me,  mo- 

KJu  floated  every  where, 

CerthoM  n 

1  cuuld  hear  the  grund  old  rirer,  as  bin 

brukklD) 
Bursting   in 

waicrx  Eougbt  the  sea. 

Rising,  lalling  to  the  pulses  of  a  weird. 

brook* 

lil  range  melody. 

•nU  its  ripp 
ligbt.rot 

rareless  glee  along. 

Bounded  off 

And  with  that  Micnin  aiith<?m,  blent   its 

tJtnir  wb 

lightly  gushing  song. 

As  with  wa«] 
ihey  lii 

And  I  imrcd  ita  silvery  windings  till  its 

sparkling  waters  fell. 

They  tevtmi 

Bounding,  leaping,  gaily  danrtng  o'er  the 

forth  th. 

What  a  rota 

lh<««  dd 

miks  adown  a  del!. 

■(^nlFift  K»Uii(,t>>lHUtUut>aHl]i(l*ii.    TImmcti 

What  a  «a!l 

I1>1>  a--t  ■  IIMlI  •tiwr.  >hlrli  It  ■  >nt>rl  Jl-Unn  Imn 

lIHTs  di 

iwui  I-lm  «l  iD.'k>,  Itonii  Uw  "  Llui>  fMU,"  bhI  <.»- 

itow  ibey  m 

they  fori 

»rt»lu.,"M--taa«hliniMl«»."    n»»  la  *  Und  c<  oUd 

TbUit  »c«]M 

(nnMiir  alxul  U»  lMR>r  BiUi  at  SI.  toUwiv,  bDI  MIb- 

10  the  la 

Mhulu  U  Ui*  IRJ  p*rbou<ia  of  tnsuU , 

<«8) 

f 


1850-GO.] 


FRANCES    A.    SHAW 


623 


Had  angel  forms  descended  then  to  visit 

haunts  of  men, 
They  might  have  made  their  chosen  home, 

that  sweet  sequestered  glen ; 
For  well  we  know  the  spirit  Beauty  has 

to  earth  come  down, 
And   placed  on   Minnehaha's    hrow  her 

fairest,  brightest  crown. 

And  this  was  "Minnehaha,"  these  were 
then  the  "  laughing  waters  " 

That  echoed  once  the  laughter  of  the  for- 
est's dark-eyed  daughters. 

Here,  from  summer's  heat  retreating, 
would  the  Indian  hunter  stray. 

And  bare  his  fevered  forehead  to  their  cool 
light-falling  spray. 

Oil,  in  listening  to  their  music,  would  the 
savage  chief  forego 

Many  a  dream  of  battle  gory,  and  of  hos- 
tile tribe  laid  low ; 

Here,  beneath  this  arch  of  waters,  many  a 
w^hispered  vow  of  love, 

Blending  with  their  ceaseless  murmur, 
sought  the  Father's  ear  above. 

Years  have  fled.     Warrior  and  chieftain, 

wily  hunter,  dusky  maid, 
From  their  own  dear  "laughing  waters," 

to  a  far-oflf  land  have  strayed. 
And  fairer  brows  are  bared  to  catch  the 

baptism  of  their  spray. 
But  yet  no  tone  of  grief  is  blent  with  their 

sweet,  joyous  lay ; 
As   in   their  never-varying  course  those 

waters  rush  along. 
Their  mystic  notes  a  language  find,  they 

sing  me  this  wild  song : 

Through  the  ages  old  and  hoary, 
Since  creation's  natal  day. 


All  unknown  to  song  or  story. 

Have  we  journeyed  on  our  way. 
At  the  morning's  sun  upspringing, 

'Mid  the  deepening  shades  of  night, 
Ever  laughing,  ever  singing. 

From  this  airy  rock-crowned  height. 
Fall  we  to  our  streamlet's  waters, 

Glide  we  to  our  father's  breast, 
Fairest  of  the  beauteous  daughters 

That  within  his  arms  find  rest 

'Mid  the  tempest's  rage  and  madness, 

Still  our  pleasant  voice  ye  hear ; 
When  the  sun  smiles  out  in  gladness. 

Yet  it  thrills  all  nature's  ear. 
When  the  weary  earth  is  sleeping 

'Neath  the  pensive,  pale  moonlight, 
And  the  stars  are  vigils  keeping 

In  the  silent  halls  of  night, 
Carol  we  the  same  sweet  story, 

Chant  we  still  a  song  to  Him, 
In  the  radiance  of  whose  glory 

AU  our  brightness  is  but  dim. 

"Minnehaha!"  "laughing  water!"  when 

my  heart  is  sad  and  lone. 
Let  me  seek  again  thy  pleasant  haunts,  and 

listen  to  thy  tone. 
When   earth's   coldness  chills  my  spirit, 

when  I  faint  beneath  life's  cross. 
When  its  idols  all  are  shattered,  and  its 

good  seems  very  dross, 
Let  me  learn  from  thee  a  lesson,  though 

deep  waters  round  me  roll. 
Though  earth's  storms  shall  gather  o'er  me, 

and  its  sorrows  shroud  my  soul. 
Still  serene  amid  the  tempest  may  I  lift 

my  heart  above. 
And  go  on  the  path  of  duty,  trusting  in 

the  Father's  love. 


f>m 


^^H 

^^^^^^B 

H 

PAMELA  S.  Tf^ 

^^^H 

Pahkla  8-  VisiMO,  a  tem-her  in  the  Sfminfuy  for  T 

^^^^^^^^^^1 

i-mn,  is  known  in  tin-  lin-niry  wurld  as  Xknette.     8M 

^^^^^^^^^^1 

N<;w  York.  And  her  chiItilto<x]  wm  ff^ni  id  ihnt  Slate. 

^^^^^^^^H 

^^^^^^^^^^1 

^^^^^^^^^^1 

iroil.     She  luu  sinwi  wrilleu  for  New  York  m^uino. 

^^^H 

m  C'iacinnati. 

^^^1 

Ti.* 

^^^^^^^H 

THE  PLOWMAN. 

Swtn 

Tkaking  op  the  etubhom  soil — 

Nuun 

Trudging,  drudging,  toiling,  moiling. 

L«tibi 

Hiinils,  aiid  feel,  and  garmenia  wiling — 
Who  would  grudge  the  plowman's  toil  ? 

Te  wlioniui 

Of  MMI 

ETwnew 
Which  not  I 

Yel  there'«  Iiwler  in  his  eye 

Ereup 
Wh.H 
InhU] 

Thai  hespeak^  no  dreamer's  fancies. 

For  his  mind  has  precious  lore 

Gkuni-d  from  Nature's  oacred  store. 

n<.,;<. 

Toiling  up  yon  weary  hill. 

Flndo 

He  hm  worked  unce  early  moroing. 

ViinlJ 

Rnsi',  and  resi,  and  pleasure  scorning, 

And  iK'i  at  his  iubiK  still, 

Nxmre's  0|M 

Tliough  tite  slaiiling  weslcm  beam 

RUJr  lii 

Quiv'ring  on  the  Khwsy  sireain, 

With  IM  \ 

yViidyou  old  ulm'sleugtUi-iiedehadow 

All  ouiHpr«i 

f'tun^  athwart  the  verdant  meadow, 

IV1.JI 

Ti'll  that  sluduwy  twilight  gray 

Emeni] 

Cainiui  now  be  faraway. 

.Sun  an 
Fount  1 

8pe !  he  stojis  and  wipes  his  brow, 

AUihl 

^^^^^^^^^^H 

Markii  the  rapid  sun's  des>«nding, 

Hiiba 

^^^^^^^^^^1 

&Iark»  hit  shadow  far  extending, 

^^^^^^^^^^1 

Deems  it  lime  to  quit  the  plow. 

TVKingupl 

Weary  man  and  weary  «tc«l 

Trudgina 

Welcome  food  and  respite  need ; 

Hudi,>i 

(BM) 

^1 

1850-60.] 


PAMELA   S.    VINING. 


625 


Who  would  grudge  the  plowman's  toil? 
Yet  'tis  health  and  wealth  to  him^ 
Strength  of  nerve,  and  strength  of 

limh; 
Light  and  fervor  in  his  glanceSi 
Life  and  beauty  in  his  fancies, 
Learned  and  happy,  brave  and  free, 
Who  so  proud  and  bless'd  as  he  ? 


MEMORY  BELLS. 

Up  from  the  spirit-depths  ringing. 

Softly  your  melody  swells. 
Sweet  as  a  seraphim's  singing, 
Tender-toned  memory  bells  I 
The  laughter  of  childhood, 
The  song  of  the  wildwood, 
The  tinkle  of  streams  through  the  echoing 
dell,— 

The  song  of  a  mother. 
The  shout  of  a  brother, 
Up  from  hfe's  morning  melodiously  swelL 

Up  from  the  spirit-depths  ringing, 

Riclily  your  melody  swells. 
Sweet  reminiscences  bringing, 
Joyous-toned  memory  bells  I 
Youth's  beautiful  bowers. 
Her  dew-spangled  flowers, 
The  pictures  which  hope  of  fnturity  drew,— 
Love's  rapturous  vision 
Of  regions  Elysian 
In  glowing  perspective  unfolding  to  view. 

Up  from  the  spirit-depths  ringing, 

Sadly  your  melody  swells. 
Tears  with  its  mournful  tones  bringing. 
Sorrowful  memory  bells ! 
The  first  heart-link  broken, 
The  first  farewell  spoken, 
The  first  flow'ret  crushed  in  life's  desolate 
track, — 


The  agonized  yearning 
O'er  joys  unretuming, 
All,  all  with  your  low,  wailing  music  come 
back. 

Up  from  the  spiritrdepths  ringing, 
Dirge-like  your  melody  swells ; 
But  Hope  wipes   the   tears  that  are 
springing. 
Mournful- toned  memory  bells ! 
Above  your  deep  knelling 
Her  soft  voice  is  swelling, 
Sweeter  than  angel-tones,  silvery  clear ; 
Singing  in  heaven  above 
All  is  unchanging  love. 
Mourner,  look  upward,  thy  home  is  not 
here  I 


MINNIEBEL. 

Where  the  willow  weepeth 

By  a  fountain  lone — 
Where  the  ivy  creepeth 

O'er  a  mossy  stone — 
With  pale  flowers  above  her, 

In  a  quiet  dell, 
Far  from  those  that  love  her, 

Slumbers  MinniebeL 

There  thy  bed  I  made  thee 

By  that  fountain  side, 
And  in  anguish  laid  thee 

Down  to  rest,  my  bride  I 
Tenderest  and  ^rest, 

Who  thy  worth  may  tell. 
Flower  of  beauty  rarest, 

Saintly  Minniebel ! 

Weary  years  have  borrowed 

From  my  eye  its  light, 
Tune  my  cheek  has  furrowed, 

And  these  locks  are  white ; 
But  my  heart  will  ever 

'Mid  its  mem'ries  dwell, 
Fondly  thine  forever, 

Angel  Minniebel ! 


40 


ELIJAH   EVAN  EDWARDS. 


Elijah  Evan  Edwards  was  bom  at  Delaware,  Ohio^  on  the  t^ 
of  January,  1831.  I  lis  father  was  a  minister  of  the  Methodist 
Mr.  Edwards  enjoyed  excellent  advantages  for  early  education, 
honor  at  Asbury  University,  Greencastle,  Indiana,  in  I8«53.  He 
employed  as  Professor  of  Ancient  Languages,  in  an  Academy  at  BrookTiIle,  In 
and  was,  in  1856,  President  of  Whitewater  College,  Ccnterville,  ftwlM«f-  ]■ 
and  1858,  Mr.  Edwards  was  Professor  of  Ancient  Languages  in  Hamilton  Uairf 
Red  Wing,  Minnesota.  lie  is  now  Principal  of  Lomont  Seminary,  Cook  « 
Illinois.  He  has  written  well  both  in  prose  and  verse,  for  die  Satiotmi  JI9 
New  York,  for  the  Ladies'  Repository  and  Odd  Fellows' 
various  prominent  newspapers. 


LET  ME  REST. 

**  Let  me  rest  I " 
It  was  the  voice  of  one 
Whose  life-long  journey  was  but  just  be- 
gun. 
With  genial  radiance  shone  his  morning  sun. 
The  lark  sprang  up  rejoicing  from  her  nest. 

To  warble  praises  in  her  maker's  ear ; 
The  fields  were  clad  in  flower-enameled 
vest. 
And  air  of  balm,  and  sunshine  clear 
Failed  not  to  cheer 
That  yet  un weary  pilgrim  ;  but  his  breast 
Wiis  harrowed  with  a  strange,  foreboding 

fear ; 
1  )<'eniing  the  life  to  come,  at  best, 
r>iit   weariness,  he   murmured,  '*Let  me 
rrst : 

Injslorious  rest ! 
Why  >h()uM  iiitifpid  vouth 
A  ri"»pit«'  HM'k  from  wearini'ss  so  soon  ? 
Why  ;«h<>iild  he  shun  tlie  fervid  heat  of 
noon  ? 


a* 


thok 


His  course  ia  onward  to  the  Liadif  1 

Tlirough  many  a  kmelyy 
ous  way, 
And  he,  to  reach  thai 
sooth. 
Must  bear  the  heat  and 
day, 

Its  noontide  ray. 
Its  gathering  atonne: 

rest, 
But  o*er  the  thorny  plaiot 

crest, 
To  the  unresting 
And  bleeding  feet 
heaven. 


**  Let  me  rest,' 

But  not  at 

Nor  yet  when  cloods 

lower ; 

Let  me  bear  up 

Till  lifi**s  red   sun 

West, 

Till  o*er  me 

night, 


abofva  MypMl 


to* 


(62«) 


1850-60.] 


ELIJAH    E.    EDWARDS. 


627 


When,  having  passed  the  portals  of  the 
blessed, 
I  may  repose  upon  the  Infinite, 
And  learn  aright 
Why  He,  the  wise,  the  ever-loving,  traced 
The  path  to  heaven  through  a  desert  waste. 
Courage,  ye  fainting  ones ;  at  His  behest 
Ye  pass  through  labor  unto  endless  rest 


"  AND  THEN." 

'TwAS  when 
A  youth  stood  on  his  threshold,  looking 

forth, 
With  dreamy  eyes,  upon  the  smiling  earth. 
And  picturing  joy  amid  the  coming  years, 
A  strange  and  solemn  voice  fell  on  his 


ears- 


"  And  then  ?  " 


"  What  tlien  ? 
*I  shall  go  forth  to  mix  with  pleasure's 

throng. 
Join  in  the  dance,  the  revel,  and  the  song. 
Till  youth  with  all  its  joyous  scenes  hath 

fled—" 
The  voice  once  more  with  chilling  whisper 
said, 

"  And  then  T* 

"  What  then  ? 
I'll  labor  then  to  gather  wealth  and  gold. 
To  meet  my  wants  when  I  am  weak  and 

old; 
To   smooth   my   path   in   life's   declining 

years." 
Again  that  solemn  voice  fell  on  his  ears — 
"  And  then  ?  " 

"  What  then  ? 
Why,  when  age  bends  my  frame,  and  dims 

my  eye, 
My  fate  will  be  the  fate  of  all — to  die ; 


Of  years  and  honors  full,  I  ask  no  more  I " 
The  voice  replied  more  solemn  than  before, 
"And  then?" 

«  What  then  ?  " 
He  answered  not,  but  with  his  yoathful 

heart 
Resolved  to  choose  the  nobler,  better  part, 
That  nevermore  amidst  his  visions  bright 
Those  whispered  words  should  mar  his 
soul's  delight, 
"  And  then.'* 


THE  THREE  FRIENDS. 

Three  friends  that  never  fail 

Each  mortal  hath. 
Himself,  his  God,  and  last, 

The  angel  Death. 

Higher  than  power  or  fame, 

Dearer  than  pelf. 
Nearer  than  brother's  love^ 

The  love  of  Self. 

Truer  than  sun  or  star, 

Higher  than  heaven, 
Deeper  than  nether  space, 

God's  love  is  given. 

More  gentle  than  the  spring, 

Or  summer^s  breath, 
And  as  a  mother  kind. 

The  angel  Death. 

There  is  a  threefold  fate 

Binding  the  soul ; 
God  fills,  Self  drinks.  Death  breaks 

Its  golden  bowl. 

The  cup  is  filled  with  bliss — 

Drain  it,  O  soul ! 
Nor  hate  the  friend  who  breaks 

The  empty  bowL 


M.   LOUISA 


CHll 


QutKT  livoa  Aimbb  slight  nuterinls  fur  bingrapb 
iDtimau^ly  n  poetic  mirnJ,  can  appreciate  the  dclinite 
B^oipnlbiM:  with  tlie  umolions  b;  which  it  is  clcT»tt 
Louisa  Chitwood  only  through  corre.ipundcncc  luiil 
ndrspHpern  and  magiuinus  of  the  We»i,  but  we  had 
gaf «  promise  of  richest  omameot  to  our  lilenilur?,  I 
genius,  she  would  grow  to  eminent  maturity;  and  wli 
with  visioita  unreaJized — with  poems  unwritten — deal 
unseen,  she  had  bei^n  stricken  by  death  in  the  mor 
the  Destroyer  liad  broken  a  drcle  through  which  n 
ish«d  friendshi[js. 

Miss  Chitwood  was  horn  Oclol>cr  twenty-ainth,  10S 
1655,  at  Ul.  Carmel,  Indiana.  Early  in  life  she  extul 
and  at  school  escited  the  envy  of  her  fellow-pupils  by  l] 
The  lirat  poem  from  her  pen  wtiich  appenretl  in  prii 
Indiana.  It  was  highly  commended  as  a  poem  from 
in  her  teens,  who  gave  evidence  of  being  a  tnie  child 
ened  with  age  and  rcguhiied  by  discipline,  would  yet  i 

Miss  Chitwood  di<I  not  alone  give  promise  of  ei 
alietcheB  potiseaa  a  peculiar  sweotneM  of  lone  and  | 
wn'tlen  for  children.  We  lliink  she  was  tsfxtctally  g 
mind.  Her  sympalliius  were  active,  and  she  lind  ft 
through  poems,  prose  skeiehes,  or  in  letters  to  her  t 
cherished  by  tnnny  who  had  never  seen  her,  as  a  dcoi 
written  notices  of  iwr  early  death,  wrote  with  ufiedi 
that  a  gitled  woman  had  died,  but  that  a  dear  friend  1 

George  D.  Prentice,  iti  announcing  her  decease,  sti 

Ulai  CbilwDod  was  jouog.  bat  la  her  brief  cktwt  «f  Ul 
her  bcwt  wu  both  wKaitd  and  KtrenglbeDed  t^  the  Mna 
nail  true  and  good— wnmi-tieart'.'d  and  bl)(h-«oalfd— dlDdilil  I 
and  beautlfiil  IhouglilB  and  of  slroag  povcra.  giton  ba  Vj  I 
nature  w»  deepi;  and  intenwlj  poetical,  and  tbw  to  bor  thi 
I  lb,  it  Kcma  a  myst^riotu  dliipenxatioa  ot  Frovidcnee  that  Ih 
)b«  l\te  of  ■  glorious  founx  girl.  Ik  withdrawn,  wbilst  MKngl 
voaobnr«d  to  Ibe  langs  and  amlrils  of  the  lens  of  thowandi 

Uiss  Chitwood  was  a  regular  contributor  to  the  £< 
potitory,  The  Gtniut  of  the  Wett,  Arihut't  HotM  Ot 
uther  papers  and  magazinos. 

UiB.  Jane  Maria  Mead,  who  writes  us  **  that  her  ] 
(<J8J 


1860-60.] 


M.    LOUISA    CHITWOOD. 


629 


fection,  as  flowers  burdened  with  perfume,"  describes  her  "  as  a  girl  of  medium  stat- 
ure, of  a  kindly  spirit ;  of  a  genial,  confiding  nature.  She  was  called  beautifuL  Her 
complexion  was  very  fair,  her  cheeks  rosy,  her  lips  red  as  coral,  her  eyes  of  a  rich 
blue,  soft  and  sweet  in  their  expression ;  her  hands  were  small  and  white,  her  hair  of 
a  flaxen  color,  inclining  to  a  golden  hue,  and  was  of  great  length." 

Miss  Chitwood  was  preparing  a  volume  of  poems  for  the  press  when  her  last  illness 
overtook  her.  Under  the  supervision  of  George  D.  Prentice,  who  wrote  an  introduc- 
tion for  it,  that  volume  has  since  been  published*  for  the  benefit  of  her  mother,  who 


--:  resides  at  Mt  Carmel,  Indiana. 


THE  TWO  POEMS. 

**  I  WILL  sing,"  thus  said  a  poet ; 

"I  will  weave  a  lay  for  fame;" 
And  his  dark  eye  flashed  and  sparkled. 

And  his  pale  cheek  flushed  with  fiame ; 
While  with  quick,  impatient  fingers, 

And  with  pale  lips  half  apart, 
rHd  he  wake  the  lyre  to  wailings, 

Groanings  from  a  tortured  heart 

Then  he  sang  a  gorgeous  poem. 

Like  a  kingly  diadem ; 
Every  line  was  like  a  jewel, 

Every  word  was  like  a  gem ; 
And  he  cast  it,  smiling  proudly, 

On  the  world's  deceitful  sea, 
Saying,  as  it  floated  onward, 

"  Fame,  oh !  brmg  fame  back  to  me." 

On  it  went,  that  gorgeous  poem. 
As  the  blue  waves  swept  apart ; 

Captivating  but  the  fancy — 
Never  speaking  to  the  heart ; 

For  to  those  who  paused  to  listen, 
The  low  dirge  within  its  breast 

Gave  it  nothing  but  wild  yearnings, 

Sadness,  bitterness,  unrest. 
But  it  twined  the  poet's  forehead 

With  a  laurel  wreath  of  flame; 


He  did  reap  what  he  had  planted, 
A  rich  harvesting  of  fame. 

^<  I  will  sing,"  thus  said  a  poet ; 

"  I  will  sing  a  lay  for  Love." 
Meekly  were  her  dark  eyes  lifled 

To  the  quiet  stars  above ; 
Then  there  came  a  dear  good  angel. 

Add  her  white  wings  o'er  her  press'd^ 
Tuning  to  a  low,  sweet  music 

Every  pulse  within  her  breast 

Then  with  dreamy  eyes  and  misty, 

And  with  red  lip  half  apart, 
Wove  she  into  words  and  stanzas 

The  emotions  of  her  heart 
"  Go,"  she  said,  "  thou  little  poem, 

Gro  abroad  like  Noah's  dove — 
Breathe  to  every  heart  a  blessing, 

Bring  me  love  I  oh,  bring  me  love  I  ** 

Lightly  went  the  little  poem. 

Gladly  on  its  mission  sweet, 
Like  a  wave  of  wondrous  beauty, 

Singing  at  the  sailor's  feet ; 
Like  a  green  tree  in  the  desert, 

Like  a  cooling  water-brook. 
Like  a  lily  by  a  river. 

Like  a  violet  in  a  nook. 


•  Poems.    By  M.  LouUa  Chitwood— flelected  and  prefixed  by  Q.  D.  Preatioe.  OindnBatl:  Moon,  WlUtech,  Keys 

&  Co.,  18o7      12rao.  pp.  288. 


630 


M.    LOUISA    ClIITWOOD. 


P 


Oh !  like  all  things  bright  and  joyous, 

Was  that  simple,  earnest  lay, 
And  of  love  a  plenteous  han-est, 

Shed  about  the  poet*s  way. 
Knelt  feihe  in  the  golden  twili^rht, 

With  the  dews  ui>on  her  hair. 
And  with  tearful  eyes  to  heaven, 

Breathed  her  thankfulness  in  prayer. 

**  If  a  pilgrim  hath  been  sliadowed 

By  the  tree  tliat  I  have  nursed ; 
If  a  cup  of  clear  cold  water 

I  liave  raised  to  li]>s  athirst ; 
If  I've  planted  one  sweet  flower 

By  an  else  too  barren  way ; 
If  I've  whispered  in  the  midnight 

One  sweet  word  to  tell  of  day ; 

"  If  in  one  poor  bleeding  bosom 

I  a  woe-swept  chord  have  stilled ; 
If  a  dark  and  restless  spirit 

I  with  ho|>e  of  heaven  have  filled ; 
If  I've  made  for  life's  hard  battle 

One  faint  heart  grow  brave  and  strongs 
Then,  my  God,  I  thank  thee,  bless  thee, 

For  the  precious  gift  of  song." 


rf 


»!■» 


THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

Thk  woods  are  full  of  tiny  graves. 

The  sweet  graves  of  the  llowers, 
That  sprang  in  every  sheltered  nook, 

Amid  the  Spring-time  hours. 
The  buttercup  lies  on  the  slope 

Where  first  th*;  sunlight  fell ; 
The  violet  sleeps  beside  the  rill. 

The  daisy  in  the  dell. 

Vi>on  no  stone  is  carved  the  name 

Of  April's  chihlren  fair ; 
Tli»*y  p«Ti>hed  when  tiie  >ky  was  bright. 

And  genth?  was  the  air. 
To  tht'  M)tl  kisM's  of  ill*'  breeze 

They  lieM,  half-lrenibling»  up, 


Full  manj  a  small 
And  honey-laden  cap. 

But  when  the  roses  budded 

In  summePd  balmj  hoiii^ 
No  little  mound  was  made  to 

Where  slept  the  gentle 
Those  early  flowers-— thr 

Like  liule  children  swi 
Who  smile  a  moment  on 

Then  perish  at  our  Icet. 

We  know  they  cannot  linger,  eV 

In  love's  most  Ibnd  emfamee; 
We  see  the  maA  of  Paradise 

Meek  shining  from 
And  soon  their  tinj 

But  years  go  circling  hj^ 
And  not  a  stcMie  can  tell  oa 

The  little  chiUren  lie. 

But  some  are  sleeping  on  the  h% 

Beneath  the  emendd  grm^ 
Where  gay  birds  soaring  to  the  d^. 

Pause  singing  as  they  pms; 
And  many  in  the  churdi-jard 

And  many  in  the  dell. 
And  many  near  the 

Of  those  who  loved 


Oh,  many  an  Indian  haby 

In  forest  old  and  grand  ; 
Its  rustic  playthings  fidlea 

The  mouldering  little 
And  flowers  have  sprung^ 
died, 

Upon  its  silent 
Their  nameless  gran 

None  mark  them  as  they 

Yet,  in  each  grassy,  faaoride 

Where  sleeping  Anitl|*Hrf 
A  bud  is  bursting  into 

A  blossom  for  the 
But,  all !  the  flowers,  the 

Their  graves  are 
We  know  they  lie  in 

And  more  we 


»y* 


1800-00.] 


M.    LOUISA    CHITWOOD. 


631 


THE   SEAMSTRESS. 

A  DIRGE,  and  an  open  grave, 

A  coffin  upon  the  bier ; 
Then   the   clay  fell   over  the   care-worn 

breast. 
And  a  form  went  down  to  its  place  of  rest, 
Like  a  weary  bird  to  her  evening  nest, 

In  the  tall  trees  waving  near. 

She  had  struggled  long  with  life, 
Long  with  her  weight  of  woe, 
Till  her  eyes  were  dim  with  their  flood  of 

tears, 
Till  her  breast  was  sick  with  its  hopes  and 

fears ; 
She  had  struggled  on  through  weary  years, 
Till  the  sands  of  life  were  low. 

She  had  toiled  from  the  early  mom, 
When  over  the  sleeping  earth 

The  clear  bright  rays  of  the  sunlight  fell 

Over  the  city,  forest  and  dell ; 

And  music  woke  like  a  fairy  bell, 
With  a  tremulous  sound  of  mirth : 

Till  the  golden  sun  was  set. 

And  the  changing  day  gone  by. 
And  the  stars  shone  forth  like  diamonds 

bright 
Set  in  the  jeweled  crown  of  Night ; 
And  the  moon  pour*d  forth  her  flood  of 

li-iit 

From  the  far-oflf  azure  sky : 

Till  her  rounded  cheek  grew  pale, 
With  her  weary,  toilsome  lot ; 

No   friends   were   near,   with   their   fond 
caress, 

To  s[)eak  kind  words,  to  soothe  and  bless ; 

But  she  struggled  on  in  her  loneliness, 
Unnoticed  and  forgot. 

Like  a  fettered  bird  long  caged, 
Which  is  at  length  released, 


Her  soul  flew  forth  from  its  cage  of  day 
Into  the  fields  of  light  and  day, 
Where  her  spirit  knows  no  more  decay, 
But  all  shall  whisper  peace. 

They  have  placed  her  in  the  tomb ; 

None  shed  a  sorrowing  tear ; 
The  busy  world  will  go  plodding  on ; 
The  night  shall  come,  and  the  morning 

dawn 
For  long,  long  years,  yet  the  spirit  gone. 

No  more  shall  sufler  here. 


BOW  TO  NONE  BUT  GOD. 

Turn  thy  face  to  the  sunshine  I 

Let  nothing  cast  thee  down, 
While  truth  upon  thy  forehead 

Rests  blazing  like  a  crown. 
Look  up !  nor  fear,  nor  falter. 

Though  a  monarch  press  the  sod^ 
Soar  upward  like  an  eagle. 

And  bow  to  none  but  God ! 

Cringe  not  to  Wealth's  proud  children, 

Though  robed  in  garments  fine — 
Give  not  an  inch !  the  pathway 

Is  theirs  not  more  than  thine ; 
Let  thy  stem  eye  confront  them, 

Bearer  of  hoe  or  hod, 
Onward  and  upward,  ever 

Bow  thou  to  none  but  Grod  I 

Look  up  !  be  brave  and  steadfast. 

Press  onward  to  thy  goal ; 
Art  thou  not  the  possessor 

Of  an  immortal  soul  ? 
Soul  bought  by  throes  of  anguish, 

In  the  garden  where  He  trod— 
Soul,  costly  as  a  monarch's : 

Bow  thou  to  none  but  Grod  I 

Shall  thy  cheek  flush  with  crimson 
Before  the  world-called  great  ? 


632 


LOUISA   CHITWOOD. 


[1» 


Wilt  thou  fawn  meekly,  humbly 
To  tliat  thy  heart  must  hate  ? 

Wilt  thou  bow  to  the  oppressor 
With  courtly  beck  aiid  nod  ? 

No !  stand  like  some  stron^i;  mountain, 
And  bow  to  none  but  God ! 

Onward  I  let  slander's  arrows 

Pass  by  in  silent  scorn ; 
Let  malice  die  in  darkne::s, 

It  was  in  darkness  bom ; 
Let  Falsehood  perish  writhing 

'Neath  Truth's  unsparing  rod. 
She  is  the  best  avenger : 

Bow  thou  to  none  but  God ! 

Onward !  and  plant  thy  harvest, 

Whate'er  the  world  may  say ; 
No  serpent's  hiss  beguile  thee 

A  moment  from  thy  way. 
If  the  way  be  very  humble 

O'er  which  thy  feet  have  trod, 
Go  on,  with  soul  unbending, 

And  bow  to  none  but  God  I 

No,  never !  while  thy  bosom 

Has  a  heart-throb  within, 
Let  thy  free  tongue  be  silent 

When  the  rich  and  mighty  sin. 
Look  up !  nor  fear  nor  falter, 

Though  a  monarch  press  the  sod; 
He  is  but  man,  weak,  erring: 

Bow  thou  to  none  but  God ! 


SERENADE. 

The  breeze  is  singing  softly 
To  tlie  young  bird  on  the  tree ; 

And  if  the  breeze  is  singing. 
Shall  not  I  sing  to  thee, 

•Ji'nnie,  darling? 
Shall  not  I  sing  to  thee  ? 

Th<*  hiimhh*  fl(»\v<*r  is  liMiking 
Towanl  the  ^vt-ning  star, 


As  I  look  to  thee,  my  deareitv 
And  wonhip  from  afkr, 

Jewiiei 
And  worship  from  a&r. 

Perhaps  thy  dark  brown 
Lie  softly  on  thy  cheek ; 

Then  let  thy  Bpirit  listen, 
And  hear  me  as  I  spcnk, 

Jennie, 
And  hear  me  as  I  speak. 

Oh !  let  me,  let  mo  k»ve  thea^ 
And  worship  from  aftr; 

For  thou  art  far  above  me 
As  ycHider  beanteona  star, 

Jennie, 
As  yonder  beanteont  star. 

And  let  me  pour  mj  spirit 
In  one  deep  song  to  thee ; 

Give  but  one  glance,  one 
My  talisman  to  be, 

Jennie^ 
My  talisman  to  be. 

She  hears !  she  smiles  I  inj 
Soars  like  a  bird  alar! 

I  half  forget  the  distaaee 
Between  me  and  the  star, 

Jennie, 
Between  me  and  the 


Good-night !— or  is  it 
The  landscape  looks  so 

Or  is  it  those  dear  glanees 
Emitting  glorious  light, 

Jennie, 
My  soul  is  bathed  in  E^hL 


? 


THAT  UTTLR  HA3ia 


His  little  hand,  so  final 
I  h(4d  it  when  he  died. 

As,  with  an  agoninng 
I  knelt  me  by  his 


I 


1850-60.] 


M.    LOUISA    CHITWOOD. 


633 


And  when  the  storm-clouds  o'er  me  rise, 
Nor  light  comes  with  the  day, 

That  little  hand  is  o'er  mine  eyes, 
To  wipe  their  mists  away. 

Oh,  death  is  not  forgetfulness  I 

It  is  not  utter  loss : 
Our  dear  ones  do  not  love  us  less 

When  they  the  death-gulf  cross. 

Oh,  thou  sweet  cherub — gentle  dove, 
From  storms  forever  flown, 

Let  thy  light  spirit-hand  of  love 
Forever  clasp  mine  own. 


THE  ROBIN'S  SONG. 

I  HEAR  a  robin  singing 

Out  in  the  Autumn  rain; 
My  soul  its  way  is  winging 

To  childhood's  time  again ; 
I  hear  the  south  winds  blowing, 
The  rush  of  the  harvest  mowing, 
And  the  voice  of  the  river  flowing, 

Where  lilies  lived  and  died ; 
I  rest  beneath  the  shadow 
Of  the  as\)en  in  the  meadow. 

With  no  hope  crucified. 

And  now  his  song  is  over, 

I  hear  the  falling  rain. 
But  I  seem  to  smell  the  clover 

With  honeyed  lips  again ; 
And  locks  the  world  hath  braided, 
And  eyes  the  tomb  hath  shaded, 
Come  back  undimmed,  unfaded. 

To  my  glad  heart  once  more ; 
And  all  the  sky  is  lighter, 
And  all  the  world  is  brighter, 

Until  my  dream  is  o'er. 

Oh,  frail  ties,  fair  and  golden, 
That  bind  us  to  the  past — 

Oh,  dreams  when  hours  the  olden 
Seem  all  come  back  at  last ; 


Slight  are  the  spells  that  take  us 
To  sweetest  thoughts,  and  wake  us 
From  heartless  things  that  make  us 

Of  sordid  life  the  slaves; 
And  through  the  world's  rough  bustle 
There  come  the  rush  and  rustle 

Of  angel-wings,  like  waves. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 

"  The  way  is  rough,  the  rocks  are  bare. 
How  can  my  bleeding  footsteps  cross  ?" — 

'' Courage!  faint  heart,  do  not  despair. 
The  rocks  are  dotted  o'er  with  moss." 

^^  The  way  is  dark,  and  lone  and  far. 
The  mists  of  gloom  around  me  rise." — 

"  Look  through  thy  tears,  behold  a  star 
Sofl  shining  on  the  tranquil  skies." 

"  The  way  is  desolate,  I  know 

Not  where  to  turn — afraid,  alone." — 

'^  Have  faith,  a  hand  as  pure  as  snow, 
Is  waiting  to  receive  thine  own." 

^<  The  way  is  sad,  the  tones  that  thrilled 
My  heart,  come  to  my  ears  no  more." — 

"  Go  on  in  hope ;  they  are  but  stilled, 
That  thou  mayst  seek  them  gone  before." 

"  The  way  is  cheerless :  ah,  my  path 
Bears  more  of  woe  than  others  feeL" — 

*'  Not  so,  the  smiles  another  hath 
A  secret  canker  ofl  conceaL" 

"  The  way  is  fearful  I  ah,  the  stream 
Is  dark,  by  fears  my  heart  is  riven." — 

"  Courage  one  moment,  yonder  gleam 
The  jasper  gates  of  rest  and  heaven." 


WILLIAM   WALLACE   HARNET. 


William  Wallace  IIaunky  was  bom  on  the  twentieth  of  June,  ia  the 
1S'{2,  at  Bloomingtoiiy  Indiana,  when*  hi^  father  resided  as  Profissior  of  Iblkn 
in  tho  Indiana  University.  His  parents  were  John  H.  Ilamej  and  Maltha  W 
Harney,  and  both  are  still  living  in  Jefferson  county,  Kentuoky.  Hu  fitfher  i*  y 
known  as  one  of  the  most  profound  scholars  in  the  We«t,  as  tlie  n— Hr  of  • 
btiuidard  works  on  niatheniati&*,  and  as  the  editor  of  the  IjouimpiWm  l}miS§  Dm 
wielding  a  wide  and  ]>owerful  influence  in  |x>litics.  Mr.  Hamej 
tucky  wlien  William  was  alM>ut  five  years  of  age,  and  his  life  haa 
atmosphere  of  learning  and  retinemenL  Ai\er  the  prelinunaiy  trainii^  H 
Wallace  Harney  entenMl  Louisville  College,  where  his  education  was  moillT  ofel 
He  did  not  graduate,  following  the  advice  of  his  father  to  be  alwaja  readj  ior ; 
aniination  to  attain  a  diploniiu  His  education  was  jYerfected  onder  the  taai 
Noble  Butler,  and  N.  V,  Peal>ody.  He  taught  school  in  LonisTille  §at 
and  was  elected  Principal  of  the  High  School,  which  he  condncted  with 
for  two  years.  He  was  called,  u|>on  the  establishment  of  the  State  Komal  i 
to  a  professorship,  which  he  tilled,  with  eminent  credit  to  hinuell^  ontil  the  di 
of  the  sehooL  He  then  began  the  practice  of  his  profeflsion,  la 
the  ojK'uing  of  the  guliematorial  canvass  of  1859,  when  he 
the  editorial  de{)artment  of  the  Louisville  Daily  Democrat^  in  which  irritHru  1 
remained,  except  at  brit^f  intervals,  ever  since.  During  several  yean,  Mr.  B 
was  a  fre((uent  contributor  of  poetry  to  the  Louisville  Journal^  Gaoije  D.  R 
awarding  his  |>oems  high  merit.  He  contributed  also  to  the 
other  }>apers.  These  |>oetic  efforts  have  not  been  numeroujs  but 
successful,  as  the  abundant  en(.*omiums  awarded  them,  together  with 
{M)))ularity,  will  In'ar  witness.  Mr.  Ham4>y  ]M>ss(*sses  fine  ffcholarihipir  ^ 
cultivated  ta^^te,  with  extnumlinary  versatility  of  talent,  a  logical  min^ 
forre  of  character.  He  \\i\:^  made  a  histing  impression  upon  the  pablie 
tUi-ky  as  an  able  {K)Iitical  writer,  and  as  a  g<'nia1  and  brilliant 
ch:iracter  of  his  duties  as  a  journalist  has  not  letl  him  that  leisure  lor  the 
of  his  reputation  as  a  {mmH,  that  his  friends  could  wish,  and  the  pore  apnwof  H 
has  been  n(*glected  for  the  dirty  |>ool  of  politics. 


(634) 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    W.    HARNEY. 


635 


THE  STAB. 

On  the  road,  the  lonely  road, 

Under  the  cold  white  moon, 
Under  the  ragged  trees  he  strode; 
He  whistled  and  shifted  his  weary  load — 

Whistled  a  foolish  tune. 

There  was  a  step  timed  with  his  own, 
A  figure  that  stooped  and  bowed — 
A  cold,  white    blade    that    gleamed   and 

shone, 
Like   a   splinter   of   daylight    downward 
thrown — 
And  the  moon  went  behind  a  cloud. 

But  the  moon  came  out  so  broad  and  good. 

The  barn  fowl  woke  and  crowed ; 
Then  roughed  his  feathers  in  drowsy  mood. 
And  the  brown  owl  called  to  his  mate  in 
the  wood. 
That  a  dead  man  lay  on  the  road. 


THE  BURIED  HOPE. 

Fold  down  its  little  baby  hand; 

This  was  a  hope  you  had  of  old ; 
Fillet  the  brow  with  rosy  bands, 

And  kiss  its  locks  of  shining  gold. 
Somewhere  within  the  reach  of  years, 

Another  hope  may  come,  like  this ; 
But  this  poor  babe  is  gone,  in  tears. 

With  thin  white  lips,  cold  to  thy  kiss. 

In  Summer,  a  little  heap  of  flowers, 

In  Winter,  a  little  drift  of  snow, 
And  this  is  all,  through  all  the  hours, 

Of  the  promised,  perished  long  ago. 
So  every  heart  has  one  dear  grave, 

Close  hidden  under  its  joy  or  care, 
Till  o'er  it  the  gusts  of  memory  wave, 

And  leave  the  little  head-stone  bare. 


THE  SUICIDR 

The  night  was  cold,  the  wind  was  chill. 
The  very  air  seemed  frozen  still. 
And  snowy  caps  lay  on  the  bill, 

In  pure  and  spotless  white ; 
The  icy  stars  lay  on  the  sky ; 
The  frozen  moon  went  sailing  by, 

With  baleful,  livid  light. 

The  leafless  tree,  with  whitened  limb 
Stood,  like  a  specter  lean  and  grim, 
Upon  the  darkened  river's  brim, 

A  moveless  sentinel  I 
And  waters  turbulent  and  vast, 
Went  swiftly  boiling,  eddying  past, 

Adown  the  inky  swell. 

The  twigs  with  tracery  of  white, 
And  tapestry  of  cui*tained  night, 
Witli  fringe  of  strange,  phosphoric  light, 

Bowed  idly  to  the  moon ; 
Anon,  across  the  silent  wood. 
The  owl  would  break  the  solitude 

With  wild  and  awful  tune ! 

No  hurrying  wheel  or  beating  tread 

Disturbed  the  sleeper  in  bis  bed. 

But  earth  and  all  on  earth  seemed  dead. 

And  frozen  in  their  graves  ; 
The  moon  seemed  that  All-Seeing  eye, 
That  watched  the  waters  whirling  by 

In  black  and  silent  waves. 

Near  where  the  wrinkled  waters  fell, 
A  woman — oh  I  such  tales  to  tell — 
Lay,  like  a  frozen  Christabel, 

Upon  the  river's  brim. 
Ah  !  was  it  so  ?  or  had  I  dreamed  ? 
Yet  so  I  saw,  or  so  it  seemed. 

By  that  cold  light  and  dim. 

And  fearfully  I  drew  a-nigb, 
With  opened  lip,  and  staring  eye. 
And  trembling  limbs — I  knew  not  why — 
Unto  the  darkened  spot. 


■VILLIAM    W.    HARNEY. 


ri« 


•      !• 


i\  uiiif .  t)r  riet; 


1  I 


u  ■ 


.1.^  .  i.t:  ':iv  ^}  Mlt'ntly, 
\:i*t,  'Ai\j\%:*i  «ir  oiutti'n^I  not. 


\  iiiuii  u(H>ii  the  river's  Uink, 
Wi:ii  r.iM'U  Iiuir.  the  tn^ssos  ilunk, 
V  fMr>e  the  yawn  in «!  waters  drank, 

Vn  ciifrt  uiHjn  the  :ihore ; 
Ihe  phu'id  features,  cold  and  still, 
The  [Mil lid  lip  and  bosom  chill 
L;iy  wti>hing  at  the  water's  will, 
^Viid  speechle^ss  evermore. 

An  ivory  arm  of  purest  white 

^Vas  swindling  with  the  water's  might. 

And  swaying  slowly  left  and  right, 

As  if  the  pulse  waa  there ; 
The  eyes  were  closed  upon  the  cheek, 
And  one  white  arm  was  folded  meek 

U|K)n  the  bosom  fair. 

And  raven  shreds  were  tangled  in 
Among  the  fingers  long  and  thin, 
As  n»nt  by  grief,  or  chance,  or  sin. 

In  moments  of  distress  ; 
Th<*  garments,  as  in  hours  of  trust, 
Were  n»nt  from  off  the  icy  bust, 

That  gleamed  in  loveliness. 

I,  kntfcling  by  that  lovely  face, 
And  g-azing,  vainly  sought  to  trace 
Her  name,  her  station,  or  her  place, 

But  all  in  vain  at  last ; — 
But  hark!    wliat  sounds  are   those    I 

meet  ? 
Tis  hurrying,  clambering,  stealing  feet 

Tliat  fearfully  go  past. 

A  wave,  much  larger  than  the  rest, 
C  anie  n»lling  o*er  that  lovely  breast. 
And  srizing  it  fnmi  out  my  ciuest, 

It  I'ore  it  down  the  tide  ; 
But  wa<:  not  that  a  liorrid  dream, 
That  thrilHii;:.  slirilly,  pim-ing  scream 

That  >tart<'d  from  my  si<ii'  ? 


I  turned,  but  naught  of  earth 

Nor  sjwcter  from  the 

Nor  cn*ature  dark,  nor  looL 

Nor  living  thing,  nor 
But  all  w:i»  silent,  still. 
As  are  formal  tliot  lie  in 

Witliin  their 


lb 


THE  ou>  mix. 


weary  yearvgDW 


Live  and  die,  live  and  die^ 
And  all  the  weary. 

And  the  quaint  Old  Mifl 
The  sun-mixed  shade,  like  a 
Lies  half-hidden  in  the  boaky 

And  half  across  the  rilL 


Tlie  Summer  comes,  and  the 
And  the  flower  blooms^  and  the 
hums, 

And  the  Old  Mill  stands  m  the  m 
The  lichen  luuif^  frDm  the 
And  the  rusty  nails  from  the 

Drop  daily,  one  bj 


The  long  grass  grows  hi  the 
Wliere  the  cattle  used  to 

And  the  rotting  wheel 
The  gray  owl  winks  in  the 
And  the  sly  rat  slinks,  with  a 

From  the  hopper  of  the  qoaiat  CM  1 

The  mill-wheel  clicked,  aad  At  kD-wI 

cLu*ke<I, 
And  the  groaning  grooves  OBee  craal 
and  cRicki*d, 
And  the  children  came  and  plafsi; 
The  lazy  team,  in  the  days  of  yora^ 
MunclKHl  th<Mr  fodder  at  the  OU  Mil  * 
Or  drowsed  in  its  gntdU 


But  the  gooil-wife  died, and  fhm 
And  the  ehildn*n  all  went  frr 
From  the  play-gn  nd  hj  Ae 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    W.    HARNEY. 


637 


Their  marble-ring  is  grass  o'ergrown 
As  tlie  mossy  foot  of  the  old  grave-stone, 
Where  the  old  folks  sleep  so  calm. 

But  the  miller's  son,  in  the  city  thick. 
Dreams  that  he  hears  the  Old  Mill  click, 

And  sees  the  wheel  go  round ; 
And   the  miller's  daughter,  through   her 

half-shut  eyes. 
Sees  the  miller  in  his  dusty  guise, 

And  the  place  where  the  com  was  ground. 


JIMMY'S  WOOING. 

The  wind  came  blowing  out  of  the  West, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
The  wind  came  blowing  out  of  the  West : 
It  stirred   the  green   leaves  out  of  their 

rest, 
And  rocked  the  blue-bird  up  in  his  nest, 

As  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

The  swallows  skimmed  along  the  ground. 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
The  swallows  skimmed  along  the  ground. 
And  rustling  leaves  made  a  pleasant  sound. 
Like  children  babbling  all  around — 

As  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

Milly  came  with  her  bucket  by. 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
Milly  came  with  her  bucket  by. 
With  wee  light  foot,  so  trim  and  sly. 
And  sunburnt  cheek  and  laughing  eye — 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

A  rustic  Ruth,  injinsey  gown — 
And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 


A  rustic  Ruth,  in  linsey  gown. 

He   watched   her   sod   cheeks'  changing 

brown. 
And  the  long  dark  lash  that  trembled  down. 
Whenever  he  looked  that  way. 

Oh  I  Milly's  heart  was  good  as  gold. 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
Oh !  Milly's  heart  was  good  as  gold ; 
But  Jimmy  thought  her  shy  and  cold. 
And  more  he  thought  than  e'er  he  told, 

As  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

The  rain  came  pattering  down  amain, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  bay ; 
The  rain  came  pattering  down  amain ; 
Apd,  under  the  thatch  of  the  laden  wain, 
Jimmy  and  Milly,  a  cunning  twain, 

Sat  sheltered  by  the  hay. 

The  merry  rain-drops  hurried  in 

Under  the  thatch  of  hay ; 
The  merry  rain-drops  hurried  in, 
And  laughed  and  prattled  in  a  din. 
Over  that  which  they  saw  within, 

Under  the  thatch  of  hay. 

For  Milly  nestled  to  Jimmy's  breast, 

Under  the  thatch  of  hay ; 
For  Milly  nestled  to  Jimmy's  breast. 
Like  a  wild  bird  fluttering  to  its  nest ; 
And  then  I'll  swear  she  looked  her  best 

Under  the  thatch  of  hay. 

And  when  the  sun  came  laughing  out. 

Over  the  ruined  hay — 
And  when  the  sun  came  laughing  out, 
Milly  had  ceased  to  pet  and  pout, 
And  twittering  birds  began  to  shout. 

As  if  for  a  wedding-day. 


i>  » 


LEWIS  JAMES  BATES. 


L.  Jamks  Batf8,  who  wiis  l>om  at  Cuiitskill,  New  York,  September  tweatjm 
1K:32,  but  who  ha*«  pa^^si'd  all  his  active  life  in  the  Miwiisjiippi  Vmllcj,  itoaeo 
ino>t  pruniisin;!:  young  {xx'ts  of  the  West,  who  can  set  ty|>o  tLn  well  aa  indite  A] 
Mr.  Katcs*s  |MH'nis  have  been  published  chiefly  in  the  Grand  Rirer  JTnyir,  C 
l^ipids,  Michi<;an,  but  he  contributed  to  Putnam^ s  Afonthiy^  and  writes  lor  ibe  A 
erborler,  New  York,  lie  is  tlie  author  of  s(?veral  |)arod]e«s  which  •^'**«*  ■ 
8ense  of  what  is  humorous.  ]\Ir.  Bates  ha^  bt'cn  connected  with  the  ediiormi  4e 
ment  of  the  Grand  Biver  EttgUy  and  of  tlie  S(ate  Journal  at  MadisoOy  Wii 
now  resides  at  Grand  Kapids. 


TUE  BRIDAL. 

Fairer  than  the  spotless  white. 

At  the  nightly  hour  of  noon, 
Of  the  blftided  northern  light, 

An<l  the  gentle  harvest-moon — 
SweettT  than  some  angel-dream, 

Such  as  infant-i^milcs  express — 
Maiden  of  the  po<»t*s  theme. 

Thou  wert  all  that  love  could  bless. 

In  the  moniing  of  her  hair, 

Kippling  g(»ld  on  banks  of  snow, 
Roso  and  fell,  as  waves  of  air 

In  th«^  dawning  float  and  flow. 
Ill  thr  sunshine  of  her  eves 

Wh«'n'so<**«*r  her  glanc«*s  roam, 
Danri-d  tin*  daintv  sunim«*r-fli<'s, 

Drcniiii;;  .Jnn«*  at  la^^t  ha<l  come. 

Than  tin'  iM'autv  (»f  Iht  soul 
Stia|ih-)MV^  writ'  ^jrn'-^iT  I'vi'n, 

li!'   iilii  .:  ill  «l»-lirioii«i  wliojf 

Malt"  of  rarlh  and  lialt'  <»f  heaven. 

1)111  niH-  >hadi»\v  dart'd  abi<lt» 
III  tin*  irlorv  <if  h»*r  home — 


Formed  so  for  an 
Feared  we  lest  the 


One  alone,  with  lovei^s  cje^ 

Watching  at  the  earljr 
Saw  the  angel-prec«fl 

Heard  his  footstep  o'er  the 
Ah,  what  torture  racked  his 

As  the  footfall  plainer 
For  all  human  love  was 

Where  an  angel  deigned  to 

Robed  in  pure  and  spotless 
Smiled  she  as  the  daj 

Wailing  for  I  he  set  of 
When  her  lord  should 

C)ne  by  one  the  boors 
Oni*  bv  one  the  fbotfidls 

m 

>i(*an'r  to  her  drooping 
Nearer  to  her  breast  cf 


When  at  kk<t  the  eve  had 

Ami  the  man  of  God 
Came  the  groom  to  heai 

With  a  blessing  and  a  pnjsr. 
j\<  the  parting  ligjiht  of  daj 

^I ingles  with  the  shades  of 
Meltrd  thus  our  love  aw^f. 

Half  to  earth  and 


(638) 


1860-60.] 


LEWIS   JAMES    BATES. 


689 


THE  MEADOW  BROOK. 

From  the  west  window,  look  I 

Yon  waving  line  of  green 
Marks  where  the  meadow  brook 
Windeth  its  way  unseen : — 
Windeth  its  way  unseen 

Under  the  willows : 
All  the  sweet  flowers  between 
Drink  of  its  billows. 

Silent  and  still  it  flows, 

So  little  space  it  hath  ; 
But  the  sweet  meadow  rose 
Brightens  along  its  path : 
Briglitens  along  its  path 

Under  the  willows, 
To  the  dark  lake  whose  wrath 
Stays  its  bright  billows. 

Kill  of  the  humble  soul, 

Though  no  proud  multitude 
Mark  w^here  thy  waters  roll, 
By  their  green  line  of  good — 
By  their  green  line  of  good — 

Roses  and  willows 
Bloom  o'er  thy  life's  small  flood 
Far  down  its  billows. 

Rill  of  the  loving  heart, 

By  thy  bright  fringe  of  green 
Telling  us  where  thou  art 
Winding  thy  way  unseen- 
Winding  thy  way  unseen 

Under  life's  willows. 
All  the  sweet  flowers  between 
Drink  of  thy  billows. 

Silent  and  still  thy  flow 

(I.ove  needs  but  little  room)  ; 


Yet,  where  thy  waters  go, 
Ah  I  how  the  roses  bloom !. 
Ah  I  how  the  roses  bloom ! 

Roses  and  willows ! 
Till  the  dark  lake  of  doom 
Stills  thy  sweet  billows. 


THE  HAPPY  YEAR. 

One  mom — I  do  remember  well — 

It  rained — ^*twas  on  a  New- Year's  day— 

Methought  the  tears  of  angels  fell 
On  all  the  seasons  passed  away. 

What  glimmer  of  millennial  light 
Has  lit  the  roadway  trod  in  gloom  ? 

The  world  reels  blindly  through  the  night, 
The  "  Happy  Year"  may  never  come. 

Our  days  have  fallen  on  evil  times  ; 

Our  highest  are  our  basest  men ;     * 
The  blood  of  mediaeval  crimes 

Drips  from  oar  garments  now,  as  then. 

Out  of  that  deep,  how  little  rise : 

Out  of  that  darkness  what  faint  spark 

Has  shown,  to  cheer  the  longing  eyes 
Weary  of  watching  through  the  dark  ? 

What  star  has  touched  the  zenith  yet ; 

Has  passed  the  dim,  meridian  line, 
The  seal  on  morning's  brow  to  set. 

And  quicken  error's  slow  decUne? 

Weary  of  questioning  the  night, 
I  looked  into  the  storm,  and  lo  I 

The  blackness  of  the  earth  was  white! 
The  falling  rain  had  changed  to  snow  1 


•  •  >  •  > 


MARY   R.   WHITTLESEY. 


Maky  Robbixs  Whittlesrt  was)  born  at  Elyria,  Lomin 
and  is  tlit;  daughter  ot*  the  hitc  Frederick  Whittlesey.     She  now 
with  her  mother.     Her  poetry  has  appeared  chiefly  in  the    (Mo  Fi 
journal  she  has  contributed  several  poems  of  great  merit.     Her 
careful  intellectual  cuhure,  and  is  full  of  fine  poetic  sensibility   ( 
genius),  which  will  hereafter  develop  itself  in  forms  of  greater 
|KK*nis  here  printed  do  not  indicate  the  range  of  the  poet's  thought,  but 
manner. 


rtOn 


HEMLOCK  HOLLOW. 

Under  these  hemlocks  no  blossoms  grow, 
And  the  bhick  banks  slo()e  to  the  stream 

below, 
That  is  blacker  still,  and  sluggish,  and 

slow ; 
For  even  in  summer  the  sun  shines  not 
Thro'  the  drooping  bouglis  of  this  dreary 

siK>t ; 
And  till*  mill-wheel  mouldered  years  ago, 
And  the  mill-streaiu*s  current  is  running 

low. 


lien*,  in  October,  the  icicles  gleam, 

1I:u)<;ing  their  fringes  from  yonder  beam, 

Om  r  the  sullen  and  silent  stream; 

And   sunu*  who  in  summer-dawns   have  The  woodman's  ax  8trik< 


Where  never  a  Binging-bM  ii 
^Vnd  the  only  MNind,  whca  the  ■( 

cool, 
Is  the  frogs*  dull  croak  fiom  joa  i 

pool; 
For  the  mill-wheel  moaldered 
And  the  mill-stream** 

low. 


THE  WOODHAXTB 

Beneath  the  forest's  roof  of 
A  f<'W  |>ale,  Bcentlesa 
With  straggling  tufls  of 


i'n»>"»t'd 
Yon«l«  r  brid^T'S  have  seen  it  white  with 

tVo^t ; 
And  J  hi*  niill-wlHM'l  mouldered  years  ago. 


''  Alus !  for  glory  Ijing 
Alas  I  their  like  will  oe 


So  mourn  we,  matteriiy:    *  Woe  I 


And  ih<*  null->trt  :un*s  curivut  is  running; The  cruel,  cruel  hand  thai  pliid 


low. 


The  ax  which  felled  the 


The  years  glide  on  in 


»" 


A  wrird  Mild  -ondxT  >il«'nc<'  bnxMls, 
M<»rniiii:    and    noon,    in    thoe    hemloi*k  Forgotten  lies  the  fereit 
w ( M  M  i  ^ .  j  Where  often,  once,  our 

(  (i40  ) 


60.] 


MARY    R.     WHITTLESEY. 


641 


in  some  careless  hour,  we  come 

I  a  patch  of  sunny  bloom, 

»  in  the  forest's  heart  of  gloom, 

pause,  in  sudden,  quick  delight, 
onder  how  these  blossoms  bright 
mg  have  hidden  from  our  sight. 

woodman's  ax  let  sunlight  in, 

re  pale  and  scentlei^s  flowers  did  lean, 

I  straggling  tufts  of  moss  between ; 

lo !  this  garden  full  of  bloom, 

re  humming-birds  and  wild  bees  hum, 

)  in  the  forest's  heart  of  gloom. 

•e  is  no  loss  without  its  gain, 
blessings  lurk  in  all  our  pain, 
re  have  lived  our  life  in  vain. 

:  seems  a  cruel  hand  to  us, 

ch  lays  our  joys  low  in  the  dust — 

bow  beneath  it — for  we  must, 

in  good  time  we  come  to  know 
hand  let  sunshine  in  below, 
re  lowly  gifts,  hke  flowers,  might  grow. 

ent,  and  sweet  humility, 
patient  trust,  and  charity, 
blossoms  of  adversity. 

mourners !  woary  of  life's  pain, 
i  heart !  thro*  grief  we  joy  attain — 
re  is  no  loss  without  its  gain. 


JULTETTR 

JST  fourteen,  as  slim  and  straight 
s  tho  poplar  bv  the  gate ; 
ves  a^  black,  aikl  bii;:ht,  and  foiirless 
s  ^ome  wild  things,  pretty,  peerless 
Juliette  ! 


Short,  black  hair,  too  straight  to  curl| 
Though  it  has  a  little  twirl ; 
Pouting  lips,  and  nose  retrotusi^ 
She  is  no  meek,  simple  Lucy- 
Juliette. 

Where  she  sits,  she  seems  to  me 
Like  a  wild  bird,  or  a  bee. 
Pausing  in  her  flight  a  minute, 
Only  freshly  to  begin  it — 

Juliette. 

When  she  walks,  no  Indian  queen 
Wears  a  prouder,  statelier  mien ; 
Stepping  o'er  the  grass  so  lightly, 
With  a  tread  both  proud  and  sprightly, 

Juliette. 

In  the  glances  of  her  eye, 
Proud,  deflant,  though  so  shy. 
Speaks  a  spirit,  keen,  sarcastic. 
Matching  with  that  step  elastic — 

Juliette 

Juliette,  take  care ! — take  care  I — 
Men,  of  girls  like  you,  beware ; 
Tho' you're  young,  and  bright,  and  pretty, 
They'll  not  love  you,  if  you're  witty, 

Juliette. 

If  you  walk  with  such  an  air ; 
Red  lips  pouting,  "  I  don't  care  ;" 
Bright  eyes  saying,  "  FU  not  fear  you, 
I'll  not  worship,  nor  revere  you, 

Stupid  men  I " 

All  unconscious,  though  you  be. 
Of  that  dash  of  mockery, 
Every  look  and  gesture  show  it, 
And  some  time  I  know  you'll  rue  it, 

Juliette. 

Only  fourteen,  Juliette ! — 
Time  to  mend  those  sad  ways  yet ; 
Train  those  eyes  to  meek  demureness : 
Grentle  glances  are  most  sure,  Miss 

Juliette. 


41 


«I2                                         MARY    R.    WHITTLESEY.                                    T 

Teach  those  lips  no  more  to  curl, 

And  yet,  not  thus,  I  know,  woaU  th 

Or  they'll  leave  you,  raucy  girl, 

brace  me. 

Your  bright  eyes,  and  red  lipa  juicy, 

If  in  the  spirit  tiiey  riioald  a 

For  some  humble,  blue-eyed  Lucy — 

night, 

Juliette. 

AAer  these  long,  long  701%  oaee  1 

face  me, 

Yet  I  love  you,  as  you  are, 

With  brows  all  radbua  witk  i 

Bright  and  sparkling,  like  a  star, 

light 

With  those  shy,  proud  ways,  concealing 

Worlds  of  deep  and  tender  feeling, 

Come,  friend,  whose  pore  aad  U 

Juliette. 

loving  spirit. 

Once  called  these  hill-sides  ham 

thy  friend. 

Come  near  me   as  of  old     1  ik 

fear  it — 

KOT  YET. 

I  know  thy  tenderness  eouU  ar 

I  SEE  the  mists  slow-rising  from  the  river 
meadows, 

And  he,  so  earlj  called  from  esrtk 

thee, 

The  ghostly  mists  that  soon  will  wrap 

He  with  folded  arins^  and  Isftf  1 

me  round ; 
I  hear  the  moths  flit  through  the  twilight 

Whose  soul  was  hidden  fivaa  ai; a 

greet  me. 

shadows 
Of  yonder  room — a  ghostly,  haunting 

My  childhood's  friends^  so  lo^  1 

unseen! 

sound. 

And  this  is  all — no  echo  of  the  voices 

I  feel  the  mists  dose  vonad  as  c 
creeping ; 

That  talked  with  mine  in  twilights  long 

I  hear  the  molhs  flit  at  jsa  i 

gone  by ; 

room; 

No  plmdowy  gleams  from  well-remembered 

But  this  is  all,  Uioogh   §pt^  1 

faces 
Turned  upward  to  the  starry  evening 
sky. 

keeping 
Their  solemn  tijsti^g  ^aid  As  ■ 

gloODU 

Come,  mists,  slow-rising  from  yon  sleeping 

Not  yet,  not  jet  maj  we  Arae  ■ 

river, 

meadow, 

Close  wnip  me  in  your  cold  and  pallid 

And  slofiing  hill-side^  whsra  1 

arms! 

flowers  blow. 

Thoy  are  not  colder  than  the  bosoms  stilled 

And  on*hanl  darlL  all  ^j  with  sla 

fon'ver. 

shadow* 

Not  paler  than  those  still  and  shrouded 

Still  with  their  haiw^tn^  prasa 

forms. 

dow. 

BENJAMIN   S.   PARKER. 


Benjamin  S.  Parker  was  bom  on  the  tenth  of  February,  1833,  in  Heniyoonnty, 
Indiana.  He  spent  his  boyhood  and  early  manhood  on  a  &rm,  enjoying  oommon- 
school  advantages  for  education. 

Mr.  Parker  has  written  for  the  State  Journal,  at  Indianapolis,  and  for  other  papers 
of  his  native  State,  a  large  number  of  pleasant  poems,  many  of  which  are  on  subjects 
of  Western  interest 


INDIAN  GRAVES. 

All  along  the  winding  river 

And  adown  the  shady  glen, 
On  the  hill  and  in  the  valley, 

Are  the  graves  of  dusky  men. 

We  are  garrulous  intruders 

On  the  sacred  burying  grounds 

Of  the  Manitou's  red  children. 
And  the  builders  of  the  mounds. 

Here  the  powah  and  the  sachem. 
Here  the  warrior  and  the  maid. 

Sleeping  in  the  dust  we  tread  on, 
In  the  forests  we  invade, 

Rest  as  calmly  and  as  sweetly, 
As  the  mummied  kings  of  old, 

Where  Gyrene's  marble  city 

Guards  their  consecrated  mould. 

Through   the    woodland,    through    the 
meadow, 

As  in  silence  oft  I  walk, 
vSoftly  \vhisp<?ring  on  the  breezes, 

Seems  to  come  the  red  men's  talk ; 

Muttering  low  and  very  sweetly 
Of  the  good  Great-Spirit's  love, 

Tiiat  descends  like  dews  of  evening. 
On  His  children,  from  above. 


Still  repeating  from  the  prophets, 
And  the  sachems  gray  and  old, 

Stories  of  the  south-west  Aiden, 
Curtained  all  around  with  gold : 

Where  the  good  and  great  Sowanna 
Calleth  all  His  children  home, 

Through  the  hunting  grounds  eternal, 
Free  as  summer  winds  to  roam : 

Singing  wildest  songs  of  wailing 
For  the  dead  upon  their  way. 

On  the  four  days'  journey  homeward 
To  the  reahns  of  light  and  day : 

Chanting  soft  and  gentle  measures. 
Lays  of  hope  and  songs  of  love, 

Now  like  shout  of  laughing  waters, 
Now  like  cooing  of  the  dove : 

Then,  anon,  their  feet  make  echo 

To  the  war  song's  fiendish  howl, 
And  revenge  upon  their  features 

Sets  his  pandemonian  scowl. 

See !  again,  the  smoke  is  curling 
From  the  friendly  calumet. 

And  the  club  of  war  is  buried. 
And  the  star  of  slaughter  set 

But  alas !  imagination. 

Ever  weaving  dream  on  dream, 


(643) 


•44 


BENJAMIN   S.    PARKER. 


[L<« 


Sjuii  rbr^Cd  liw  burred  red  men 
Fiir  HiUie  mure  congenial  theme. 

Hut  olthouifh  their  race  is  ended 

Ami  tbrever  over  here, 
Let  their  virtues  be  remembered. 

While  we  fervently  revere 

All  their  ancient  burial-places. 
Hill  and  valley,  plain  and  glen ; 

Honor  everv  sacred  relic 
Ot*  that  fading  race  of  men. 

Ciitohi'-Manito  ha^  calle<l  them 

From  the  clias<»  and  war-]>ath  here, 

To  tiie  mystic  lanil  of  spirits, 
In  :(ome  un<iiscovenHl  Hphere. 

In  a  land  of  li^ht  and  ^lory, 

That  no  ;<ach(*nrs  eye  hath  8cen, 

Where  the  streams  an;  golden  rivers, 
And  the  forests  ever  green ; 

Where  the  winter-sun  d(wc4*nding 
Setri  tlit^  south-west  sky  aflame, 

Sliall  the  Indian  race  l>e  gathered 
In  the  great  Sowanna'd  name. 


TSADORK. 

1*1  KKST  soul*  nn^  sometimoR  jriven 

Into  forms  of  slightest  mould, 
Spiiit.N  that  iM'long  to  heaven, 
A-t  the  lambkin  to  the  fold. 

That  no  «'artlily  lov«»  cim  stay 
From  their  native  shore  away. 

^j»irit«s  very  meek  and  lowly, 

Swell  as  in  the  <lays  to  (Nwne, 
SiiiL'iriiT  prai •;♦••;  to  th«;  Holy, 
In  tilt'  ^lad  millennium, 

Tlirri  >hall  troail  the  earth  alone, 
Till  a  thou^iind  years  are  gone. 


Such  a  soul  of  rarest  bemntj. 

Oh !  sweet  liwdore.  wmt  thinet 
As  along  the  path  of  daty 

Trode  thy  presence — hftlf  diTim, 
Till  from  out  the  ooaiti  abon; 
As  a  messenger  of  lore. 


When  the  starry  lamps  i 

In  the  vaulted  blue  of  night. 
Came  an  angel  downward  wingia^ 
On  his  pinioiM  snowj  white. 
And  thy  spirit  bore  awaj 
To  the  realms  of  endloH  daT. 


Freedom  is  the  child  of 
MortaFs  priceless  boon. 

Deathless  as  the  fanman 
All  the  ministers  of  eviL 
All  the  angels  of  the  Devil, 

Despots  that  a  space  oontrol. 
Cannot  blind  this  foe  to  eril. 

Cannot  blast  it  froin  the 


O !  sing  praise  to  God  the  giver 
Of  this  lKX>n  that  lives  fbirtet. 

Nature,  with  thj  heavenly 
Sun  tliat  shineth  in  thy  gloiy. 
Shout  aloud  great  freedon 

Till  the  distant  spheres 
Till  the  Earth,  grown  old 

iShall  make  freedom^  God 


ted 


Hearken  then,  O !  fello 
Sitting  in  thy  doom's 

To  the  voices  as  they 
How  the  starry  beans  that 
And  I  he  swiftly-flowing 

Shout  for  freedom  ns  thay 
Then  arise,  thank  God  the  givaiv 

And  for  frei     m  attika  the 


MARY  A.   SHORT. 


Mary  Asenath  Short,  daughter  of  Daniel  and  Anne  W.  Short,  was  bom  at 
Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  in  the  summer  of  1833.  In  1850  she  removed  with  her 
parents  to  Columbus,  Ohio.  Her  first  published  poems  were  contributed  to  the 
Weekly  Ohio  Statesman^  then  conducted  by  Samuel  Medary.  She  is  well  known  as 
Cultivator  Mary,  having  frequently  written  over  that  signature  for  the  Ohio  Ctd" 
tivator,  and  for  "  Grace  Greenwood's"  Little  PUgrim,  Her  later  poems,  published  in 
Arthur's  Home  Magazine  and  Beadle* 8  Home  Monthly,  have  been  signed  Fanny  Tbub. 
Miss  Short  is  now  a  resident  of  Plymouth,  Richland  county,  Ohio. 


ANOTHER  YEAR. 

Like  a  child  by  the  sea-shore  standing. 
Where  the  waves   sweep  up  in  their 
pride, 

I  stand  by  the  brink  of  the  closing  year, 
And  watch  its  receding  tide. 

Whatever  of  good,  whatever  of  wrong, 
To  its  dashing  waves  I  have  cast, 

Will  return  again,  when  the  tide  rolls  in 
With  the  scroll  of  the  mighty  Past  I 

Remorseless  waters !  ye  mock  and  play, 

Ye  surge  o*er  many  a  wreck, 
0*er  many  a  wreck  of  home  and  heart, 

As  over  a  shattered  deck. 

But  on,  in  the  strength  of  its  native  pride, 

Sweeps  the  majestic  sea; 
Bearing  the  years,  with  their  records  and 
deeds. 

To  the  shores  of  Eternity  I 

Shall  we  idly  wander  upon  the  strand  ? 

Shall  we  gather  the  shells  that  lay 
Rose-hued  and  pearl,  amid  the  foam. 

Tossed  up  by  the  mocking  spray  ? 


Shall  we  heed  the  roar  of  the  restless  deep. 
While  the  waves  roll  up  and  recede. 

And  the  record  they  bear — a  blank,  per- 
chance, 
Or  a  wrong  or  unworthy  deed  ? 

A  white-capped  billow  is  nearing  the  shore, 
It  is  welcomed  with  hope  and  fear ; 

And  the  name  we  read  on  its  jeweled  crest, 
Is  the  name  of  another  year ! 

Then  on  the  breast  of  the  breaking  wave. 
Rich  tokens  of  good  well  cast, 

And  they  shall    return,  when  the  tide 
sweeps  in. 
With  the  scroll  of  the  mighty  Past ! 


GONE  HOMR 

^  Dust  to  dust,"  the  Preacher  said, 
Above  the  form  of  the  sleeping  dead ; 
^  Ashes  to  ashes,"  let  her  be, 
Alone  in  her  holy  purity. 

Folded  the  hands  upon  her  breast, 
Mocking  the  semblance  of  dreamy  rest ; 


(645) 


646 


MAKV    A.    SHORT. 


l« 


The  dosed  lips  part  no  more  with  breutli. 
All  Btill  in  the  uwtui  hush  of  death. 

Smooth  the  pillow  beneath  her  head, 
Tenderly  toueh  the  beautiful  dead ; 
Who  shall  part  the  vail  for  thee, 
And  reveal  this  strange  death-mjrstery? 

Sweetly  humble,  her  life  while  here, 
Fitful  with  ehanging  ho{)e  and  fear ; 
Silent  and  pure,  she  walked  alone, 
Onward  and  upward  to  the  Throne  I 

On  through  a  world  that  was  cold  and  vain. 
On  through  bitterness,  grief  and  pain ; 
Keeping  her  soul,  'mid  trials  and  cares, 
Gentle  and  white  with  her  trusting  prayers. 

She  reached  at  last  the  Beautiful  Gate, 
No  need  for  the  weary  one  to  wait ; — 
Her  robes  were  such  as  the  angeb  wear, — 
The  Gate  swung  back,  and  she  entered 
there! 


LITTLE  NELL  WOOD. 

"  What  makes  me  so  happy,  so  happy  to- 
day?" 

Cried  little  Nell  Wood,  looking  up  from 
her  play ; 

The  while  a  sweet  wonderment  beamed  in 
her  eyes. 

As  though  'twere  a  strange  and  delightful 
surprise 

That  Iht  heart  with  such  ghidness  and  joy 
should  be  stirred. 

And  dunce  in  her  breast  like  a  sweet  sing- 
ing bird ! 

She  went  to  the  window,  and  while  the 
Spring  air 

Pushed  back  the  bright  waves  of  her  sofl, 
curlin;^  hair, 

It  l)rou;^ht  ne'er  a  vision  of  meadow  and 
trees, 

Or  roses  or  brooks,  or  sweet  honey-bees — 


She  saw  not  her  lamb  ■■  it  M  I 

door, 
Or  the  kitten  that  plajed  bj  kcr  i 

the  floor, 
And  pulling  her  droM  in  a  dj  a 

way, 
And  pleadingly 

say — 
**  Come,  Nelly, 

play!" 
No,  she  saw  none  of  these* 

were  all  bent 
Down  deep  in  her  soul,  with  a 

intent, 
Searching  out  the  bright 

tiful  ray, 
Had  made  her  life  hiqipj,  m 

day! 


aad  k 


So  happy — and 

brain 
She  was  pondering  the 

again. 
As  others  hare  dom^   and 

vain, 
Why  earth  was  so  bright, 

spirit  thrilled 
With  kindneM  and   love^ 

heart  filled 
With  a  melody  new, 

the  morrow. 
The  hours  would  dmitu 

sorrow. 
'Twas  the  first  earnest 

chi  Id-mi  nd« 
Still  no  impulse  or 

she  find. 
So  the  happy  daj 

glee. 

Till  seated  at  night 

knee. 
In  her  little  white 

her  bed. 

And  the  simple   pelilioB  oT  fHjfl 

been 


iahoTH 


1860-60.] 


MARY    A.    SHORT. 


647 


The  mother  with  tenderness  clasped  to  her 
breast, 

And  whispered  to  Nell,  ere  she  laid  her  to 
rest, 

**  When  Freddy  was  naughty,  and  struck 
you  this  mom, 

You  did  not  grow  angry  and  strike  in  re- 
turn, 

But  all  the  day  long  you've  been  gentle 
and  mild, 

And  made  mother  proud  of  so  darling  a 
child!" 

A  beautiful  light  is  in  little  Nell's  eyes, 

A  new  thought  has  filled  her  with  joyful 
surprise — 

*•  Now  I  know  it,"  she  cried,  "  it's  all  un- 
derstood, 

Twas  God  made  me  happy,  because  I  was 
good!" 

Tis  thus  we  find  wisdom,  all  pure,  unde- 

filed, 
When  God  sends  us  truth,  on  the  lips  of  a 

child. 
She  has  solved  the  great  problem,  sweet 

httle  Nell  Wood, 
That  the  way  to  be  happy  is,  first  to  be 

good! 


Through  thy  long  absence,  with  a  faithful 
heart. 

To  do  just  right  I 

When  I  have  made  thy  wishes  all  my  own, 

And  gently  thought 
That  thou   wouldst  look  approvingly  on 
what 

My  hands  had  wrought ; 
I  ask  that  thou  appreciate,  and  if 

Tis  fairly  won. 
Grant  me  the  blessing  of  a  smile,  aod  say, 

"  It  is  well  done ! " 


APPRECIATION. 

I  ASK  not  for  a  kindly  deed,  ye  should 

My  name  applaud ; 
Give  me  no  formal  thanks  or  flatteries 

As  meet  reward. 
These  cannot  satisfy,  when  I  have  sought 

With  sweet  delight, 


MAY. 

Beautiful  May, 
Like  a  child  at  play. 
Comes  tripping  along  her  joyous  way^-^ 
Tripping  along. 
With  mirth  and  song, 
Laughing,  loving  May  I 

Wiping  her  tears, 

Soothing  her  fears, 
April  no  longer  in  shadow  appears ; 

May's  soft  hand 

Like  a  magic  wand, 
Scattereth  blessings  all  over  the  land. 

The  bright  sun  gleams, 
On  hills  and  streams. 
There's  a  strange,  new  warmth  in  his 
glancing  beams. 

Ah  I  blue-eyed  May 
Is  his  bride  to-day, 
Beautiful  maiden.  May  I 


^•*  » 


GEORGE  W.  CROWELL. 


George  W.  Ckowell  was  bom  in  the  village  of  Bloomfield,  Tnmballi 
Ohio,  in  the  year  1833.  lie  a^^sisted  his  father  to  till  the  soil  antfl  he  wmc^ 
jcars  of  age.  lie  then  went  to  Cleveland  and  engaged  in  mercantile 
he  has  since  prosecuted  with  activity,  giving  only  occan^ioDal  aUentaoa 
Did  he  cultivate  his  poetical  abilities  as  assiduously  as  be  has  punoad 
he  would  occupy  high  rank  among  the  poets  of  the  WesL 


OUR  SIRES. 

Where  are  our  sires,  our  noble  sires, 
Those  men  of  toil  and  earnest  thought, 

Who  lit  our  sacred  vestal  fires, 
A  heritage  so  dearly  bought  ? 

Who  spumed  the  tyrants'  deeds  of  wrong. 
And  swept  o'er  wide  expanse  of  sea, 

'Mid  nature's  wilds  to  battle  long, 
And  swell  the  armies  of  the  free. 

Their  ax-strokes  rang  'mid  forests  deep, 
Their  cabins  rose  in  every  glade ; 

With  freedom  wild,  their  pulses  beat — 
Those  fearless  souls,  the  truly  brave. 


Our  domains  then,  a  wildering  wild. 
Of  savage  haunt  and  tangled  wood, 

Wht'fe  n»aincd  unfetteriil  nature's  child. 
And  forcst«i  grand,  in  beauty  stood. 


Tliey  crojised  our  many  flowing  streams, 
Thoy  toiled  o*er  rujrged  mountains  high, 

Wliere  proud  the  Mississippi  gleams. 
And  where  the  Allf^rhanies  lie. 

Tliev  came,  the  ajrcd  and  tlio  vouth. 
Still  firmly  Ijcarinj^  in  their  van 


The  sacred  ark  of  livmg 
To  worship  God,  at 


They  left  to  us  a  oountrj 

Untrammeled  bj 
Of  rivers  vast  and 

Of  swelling  hills  and 


And  bright  upon  bistorie 

Enrolled  their 
With  peerless  luster. 

Through  brigbt'iihig 
time. 


M 


of  a 


VE2IU& 


I  LEAN  upon  my  window-ifl^ 

And  gaze  up  lo  tbe 
Which  glows  serenely 

In  purple  distance 
Which  hangs  a  golden  nni  tt  Bf;hl 

Within  the  silent  deepeai^g  Wi 
And  brighter  gleams  as  shadas  of  a^ 

Brood  o'er  a  world's 
And  eanie<%t  thoughts  rise  ia  aj 

As  still  I  nuirk  its  oawaid  wiy, 

(648) 


1850-60.] 


GEORGE    W.    CROWELL 


649 


Where  waves  of  light  retreating  roll 

Along  the  dim  confines  of  day. 
Where  pale  and  calm,  yet  stern  it  shines, 

And  leads  the  armies  of  the  night, 
Which  sweep  with    long   and    glistening 
lines, 

Like  bannered  hosts  of  peerless  might. 
Along  the  pathway  of  the  skies, 

Adown  the  blue  and  gleaming  arch, 
Where  day  in  fainting  splendor  flies 

Before  their  grand  triumphal  march. 

But  yet  shall  she  assert  her  might. 

When  through  the  gateway  of  the  dawn 
She  rolls  her  crimson  tides  of  light 

O'er  mountain  waste  and  smiling  lawn. 
And  thus,  I  thought,  as  ages  wane, 

How  in  the  cycles  vast  of  time 
Successive  souls  shall  rise  and  reign 

In  constellations  there  sublime. 
And  as  the  starry  fields  above 

Melt  in  the  golden  haze  of  day, 
Thus  in  the  boundless  realms  of  love 

Tlie  stars  of  mind  shall  fade  away. 
Forever  rising  through  the  gloom. 

Their  endless  columns  onward  pour. 
The  nations  marching  to  the  tomb, 

Thoy  pass  fix)m  earth  for  evermore. 

And  thus  when  with  the  solemn  night 

I  see  her  ai-tnies  grand  and  vast, 
Wlien  Venus  flames  in  splendor  bright, 

My  soul  steals  down  the  ages  past, 
I  see  the  star  there  brightly  shine, 

Clialdea's  pilgrims'  guiding  gem. 
The  star  which  first  with  light  divine 

Hung  o'er  the  vales  of  Bethlehem. 

0  cliilJ  of  Eve !     O  boon  of  life  ! 

O  hope  unto  my  soul  that's  given! 

1  gaze  from  out  the  dust  of  strife. 

From  earth  to  thee,  from  thee  to  heaven. 


LOOK  UP. 

Look  up !  the  futurt's  all  before  I 
There — let  the  past  deep  buried  lie  ; 

While  life  still  nerves  the  arm  to  do^ 
Let  hope  yet  fire  the  soul  to  try. 

O  bow  not  down  before  the  blast. 
But  stand  erectly,  firm  and  strong ; 

And  bravely  meet  opposing  fate — 

What  though  the  struggle's  fierce  and  long! 

Yes,  bare  your  arm,  and  raise  your  head, 
^d  let  your  gaze  be  upward  still ; 

The  palm  of  victory  lies  before. 
And  you  shall  grasp  it,  if  you  will ! 

The  world  may  seek  to  put  you  down ; 

But  that  the  world  can  never  do. 
If,  strong  in  conscious  truth  and  right. 

Your  purpose  firm,  you  firm  pursue. 

The  men  who've  made  a  living  mark. 
And  won  a  name  which  ne'er  can  die, 

Have  toiled  through  years  of  doubt  and 
gloom 
Up  to  their  immortality. 

How  bright  the  generative  scroll. 

Which  marks  the  long  descended  line. 

That  bore  the  sacred  ark  of  truth 
Adown  the  dusky  slopes  of  time  1 

They've  often  on  the  scaffold's  deck. 

And  often  in  the  lonely  cell. 
Maintained  the  dignity  of  right. 

And  triumphed  over  earth  and  helL 

O  fainting  soul,  fresh  courage  take, 

While  deeds  like  these  immortal  shine ; 

If  thou  wilt  struggle  to  the  end. 
The  victory  must  and  will  be  thine. 

And  in  that  toil  each  drop  of  sweat 
Shall  flash  a  jewel  in  thy  crown ; 

The  world  may  strew  your  path  with  thorns, 
But  it  can  never  put  you  down  ! 


CARRIE   S.   HIBBARD. 


TiiKKK  1:4  a  l>vnutiful  tondt'mcss  in  all  the  poem.4  that  I  have  seen  (tarn  ihc 
**  Mabel  St.  C-luir/'  whu*li  must  nireudy  have  endeared  her  to  mmnj  heutt  thi 
•*  luvt'd  and  lost.**     For  nii%  tiM*n»  is  overmuch  odor  of  graven  and 
Vi-rstr ;  lilie  seems  to  liuv«>  withered  nearly  all  her  flowers  from  m  place  of 
she  hits  u  •fenuine  (HM'tie  feelin^r,  and  a  rare  felieity  of  expression,  that 
funereal  tendency,  and  her  otrasional  want  of  art.     Tlie  excellence*  and 
(MM > try  art>  too  obvious  for  comment.     She  always  seems  to  **  look  into  her  ka 


write. 


u 


Miss  Ilibbard  wa^  bom  at  Millefieldi  Athen;*  county.  Ohio,  in  1833,  and 
at  Spring  Ilill,  Fulton  i^ounty.     Under  the  tiom  de  plume^  **'  Alabel  Sl  Ckir' 
contributed  to  the  Ohio  Staie  Journal,  Toledo  Blade,  and  Athens 


COUSIN  MILLIK. 

"Tn  be  a  butterfly,  I'd  be  a  butterfly" — 
Gaily  sang  out  cousin  Millie,  one  day, 

As  wildly  we  dance<l  'neath  the  broken- 
limbt*d  russet  tret», 
Ijonj5  years  apo,  one  mid-summ«*r,at  play 


Many  long  yean  have  gone  bj  ■ 
bummer. 
Years  tlmt  have  bardened  thoi 
ders  with  care ; 
Years  that  ha%-e  hashed  the  ^al 
tliat  morning^ 
And  wrung  from  thow  fiptlkedi 
of  despair. 


ITp  went  her  arms,  with  their  1>ands  of  soft 

.i  I  ;  Oh  when  I  meet  her  in 

ruMMm,  I 

Down  came  the  curls  o'er  her  shoulders  i  *"^' 

,.  And  look  on  the 

ot  snow,  j 

Trip  went  her  feet  to  her  lip  keeping  mu-'  ^^''•'^  '•'^^' 

My  heart  faintlj  cchoea  the 

Now  joyous  and  gushing,  now  plaintive  morning 


and  low. 


Ah!  Millie, yoa'd be 


I  kissed  tlie  red  lii)s  en*  they  paused  in! But  when  o'er  her  lieart  the  pih 
their  ringing,  I         *^haH  be  folded, 

I  pu.-lied  back  the  curls  fnrtn  her  sunny'     When  from  her  bnvw  the 
white  brow ;  I         P"*  away. 

And  up  from  inv  lieart  came  the  words  The  In-auty  Hell  give  her  in 
tliat  I  uiten-d,  j  ?l<)rj% 

*'  Why.  Millie,  you're  almost  a  butterfly       Shall  not — like  the  batleiiji'i 


MOW. 


I         day. 
( (WO  ) 


1850-60.] 


CARRIE   S.    HIBBARD. 


661 


THE  OLD  DOOR-STONR 

Half  hidden  there  in  rustling  leaves, 

With  velvet  moss  o'ergrown, 
Dark  with  the  shade  the  willow  weaves, 

Deep  lies  the  old  door-stone ; 
I  sometimes  fancy  'tis  peopled  still, 

That  old  house  over  the  way — 
Fancy  it  echoes  the  joyous  shout 

Of  children  merry  at  play. 

Each  room  has  a  voice  that  I  love  to  hear, 

Each  haunt  where  our  feet  have  trod — 
Though  some  that  walked  beside  me  there 

Are  resting  now  under  the  sod. 
The  grass  that  grew  by  the  garden  wall 

Was  parted  aside  one  day, 
To  lay  down  our  Abbie,  the  dearest  of  all, 

To  sleep  'neath  the  shadow  for  aye. 

And  when  sweet  Minnie  went  a  bride. 

Crowned  with  our  hopes  and  prayers ; 
We  smiled  adieu,  but  the  old  door-stone 

Was  spattered  thick  with  tears. 
And  o*er  it,  too,  our  Charley  passed. 

But  he'll  never  cross  it  more. 
For  the  ocean  wave  sweeps  over  him  now, 

A  tliousand  leagues  from  shore. 

And  I  mind  me  too,  when  the  old  door-stone 

Bore  prints  of  the  baby's  feet; 
When  she  came  to  us  at  dewy  eve, 

With  pinks  and  violets  sweet 
*Ah,  had  she  lived  to  bear  her  part 

In  the  warfare  of  after-years, 
I  f(;ar  that  botli  her  eyes  and  heart 

Would  have  sometimes  filled  with  tears. 

We  may  seek  for  other  and  fairer  homes. 

But  dearest,  I  know,  and  best, 
Will  be  the  one  whose  hallowed  rooms 

Our  feet  in  childhood  press'd. 
B(i  this  my  prayer — may  He  guide  us  all 

In  wisdom,  and  mercy,  and  love ; 
Till  He  calls  us  up  to  that  brighter  home 

'*  Not  built  with  hands,"  above. 


LADY  MARY. 

Lady  I^Iary  is  riding  by. 

Her  black  plumes  nod  in  passing  breeze ; 
I  caught  the  glance  of  her  hazel  eye, 

Passing  under  the  gateway  trees. 
Lady  Mary  is  riding  by, 
Handsome  and  rich,  0 1  why  not  I  ? 

Ah !  pause,  fair  girl,  ere  thus  you  gaze 
At  the  nodding  plumes  and  the  faultless 
dress. 
She  would  tell  thee,  child,  that  it  ill  re- 
pays 
The  price  of  her  former  happiness ; 
And  gladly  she'd  give  them  all  to  you, 
For  an  hour  of  peace  her  girlhood  knew. 

Those  glittering  bands  wreathe  a  weary 
brow. 
Those  satin  folds  cover  an  aching  heart, 
And  dark  as  her  sable  plumes  the  woe 
That  is  tearing  the  chords  of  her  life 
apart 
An  unloved  wife,  what  more  than  this 
Could  chain  us  here  to  wretchedness  ? 

Strangers  meet  in  those  princely  halls, 
Though  bound  by  the  closest  of  human 

ties. 
And  the  mirror  that  bangs  on  those  gilded 

walls 
Too  often  reflects  back  tearful  eyes. 
Were  it  thine  to  choose,  say,  say,  sweet 

maid. 
Would  ye  purchase  wealth  at  the  price 

she's  paid  ? 

She  may  keep  her  servants,  her  lands,  her 
gold, 

Her  wealth,  her  home,  so  dearly  bought, 
I  am  happier  here  a  thousandfold, 

And  her  pomp  and  beauty  I  envy  not 
Lady  Mary  is  riding  by, 
She  is  not  rich — ^'tis  I,  'tis  L 


GRANVILLE  M.  BALLARD. 


Granvill£  Mellkn  Ballakd  was  born  at  We.stport,  Oldluun  xTr»»»^, 
on  the  thirtieth  day  of  March,  1833.  Hid  father  was  a  phjsicuui.  GnnvOba 
excellent  opportunities*  for  education  in  boyhood,  and  graduated  in  the 
partment  of  Asbury  University,  at  Greencastle,  Indiana,  in  Julj,  IML 
courted  the  Mustes  nincc  his  boyhood,  and  has  contributed  poems  to 
and  Western  magazines  and  newspapers.  His  poems  are  all  carelbllj 
and  some  of  them  are  distinguished  for  mellifluous  rhythm.  The  poems 
this  volume  find  place  here,  not  because  they  arc  his  best  poems,  bat 
possess  local  interest  as  well  as  poetic  merit  The  ^  Ballad  of  Gnariwnoi  TV 
an  original  contribution  to  this  work.  Mr.  Ballard  is  now  the  principal  leaehB 
Institution  for  the  Deaf  and  Dumb  at  Indianapolis.  He  gives  his  Icimc  is  i 
entitled  ''  The  Village  Politician,**  which  he  proposes  to  publish  bef«K«  the  Of 
of  the  present  year. 


WHERE?  — HERE. 

WuERE  doth  the  sunlight  linger  latest? 

Where  ? 

Wlierc  doth  Diana  smiling  meet  us  ? 
Where  doth  Delphinus  nightly  greet  us? 

Where  ? 

Where  doth  the  early  primrose  bloom  ? 
Whore  doth  the  pink  exhale  |KTfume  ? 
Where  do  the  shadows  bring  no  gloom? 

Oh!  Where? 

WIktc  hath  the  sky  the  softest  blue  ? 
Whore  hatii  the  gniss  the  greenest  hue? 
Whore  di»th  tiic  night  distil  her  dew, 
Iniu  the  lap  of  the  sullen  yew  ? 

Where?  Where? 


■mrt  k 


WluTo  do  the  waters  murmuring  low, 
Retloot  the  sunset's  golden  glow  ? 
Whrn'  do  the  springs  forever  flow  ? 
Whoro  do  the  win«Ls  most  sofilv  blow? 
Where  duth  muss  on  tlio  iiill-sidcs  grow? 

Where?  oh!  Where? 

(652) 


Where  do  ivy  and  woodbine 
To  the  twisted  tmnk  of  the 
Where  doth  the  blue-jaj  loodlj 
Where  is  the  hak  first  on  the 
Where  doth  the  robin  carij 
ller  brood  of  young  in  the 

Where? 

Not  in  the  cold  and  dreaiy 

Whence  Boreas  sends  her 

Nor  yet  beneath  those 

Wliere  withered  llo 

Nor  in  the  old  and  fiibled 

Where  adders  in  the 

But  here,  oh  fooI  that 

Beneath  the  blue  skies  of  the  Wail; 

Here  And  that  ocean  deep 

OVr  which  the  bark  of  lilb 

Nor  wind,  nor  wave. 

Can  give  to  hope  an  ebb  or 


I 


1860-60.] 


GRANVILLE    M.    BALLARD. 


663 


BLOOD  FOR  BLOOD. 

A  BALIJLD  OF  GNARLWOOD  TREK.* 

Red  was  the  sun  in  Autumn, 

And  the  Autumn's  leaves  were  red ; 

And  the  green  old  earth  was  dappled  brown, 
And  the  sky  was  blue  overhead. 

The  alder  bush  was  leafless, 

The  sweet  fern's  leaves  were  seared, 
And  smoky,  and  dull,  and  old  and  gray, 

The  hills  far  off  appeared. 

From  caverns  came  the  west  wind, 

Where  sleep  her  fairy  clan. 
And  over  the  chords  of  a  viewless  harp 

The  west  wind's  fingers  ran. 

Nimbly  the  west  wind's  fingers 

Over  the  old  harp  swept. 
And  a  thousand  monarchs  of  the  wood 

In  russet  and  purple  wept. 

It  was  a  mournful  music 

Such  as  the  Autumn  brings. 
For  it  was  the  weird  October  winds 

That  swept  the  wizard  strings. 

In  such  a  time  of  Autumn, 

In  years  now  long  gone  by, 
In  a  dense  old  forest  of  the  West 

Wliere  spires  now  pierce  the  sky. 

With  blankets  wound  about  them, 
And  with  bows  and  arrows  three, 


*  Prominent  amon^  the  objectfi  of  internut  in  the  beau- 
tiful capital  of  In*]iana.  8tan<i8  Gnarlvrood  Tree,  with 
which  tlie  inciduntn  of  thit  ballad  are  a«80ciated.  It  is  a 
nntive  elm.  au<l  hat  been  ailju«l|^  by  traT(«leni  tontand 
without  a  rivul,  in  all  the  citiea  of  the  Union,  in  point  of 
b«-uuty.  The  interest  that  cluxti'n*  around  it,  on  account 
of  the  trapedieH  supposed  to  have  been  enacted  beneath 
it-*  hntnclie«,  should  book  it  upon  the  page  of  romance. 
Thin  tn.-o  has  attHino«l  an  altitude  of  about  ninety  feet, 
and  the  ^re.it«Ht  di.itiifter  of  its  top  in  almost  one  hundred 
fe<>t.  Itri  trunk  ui(>asureri  one  hundred  and  eighteen 
iucluH  in  rirruniferoiK'c,  at  a  point  equally  distant  from 
the  pround  and  the  lowest  limb.s.  It«  niaMlre  crown  out- 
lines a  iKjuutiful  curve,  and  itrf  roots  extend  OTer  an  area 
of  nearly  nine  hundred  square  yards. 


Big  Ears,  Elk,  and  E{igle  Eye  sat 
Under  old  Gnarlwood  Tree. 

Sad  and  sullen  they  sat, 

Dreamers  at  noon  of  day ; 
And  they  looked  intently  upon  the  earth, 

But  neither  a  word  did  say. 

From  noon  till  night  they  sat 

Under  old  Gnarlwood  Tree, 
When    Big    Pkrs,   chief   of    the    Dela- 
wares. 

Rose  up,  and  thus  spoke  he : 

"  Brothers,  this  day  weVe  passed 

In  penance  for  the  dead; — 
Blood  for  blood  was  the  olden  law 

That  turned  our  fathers  red. 

"  Swift  as  the  fallow-deer 

I  vow  to  speed  away. 
Nor  heed  the  elk  nor  the  buffalo 

Till  I  the  pale  face  slay." 

He  knit  his  brow  in  wrath, 
He  scowled  on  earth  and  sky. 

And  the  hot  revenge  that  warmed  his  blood, 
Shot  fire  from  his  eye. 

Then  Elk,  an  Indian  brave, 

Grim  as  the  twilight  oak. 
Arose  as  silently  as  the  moon 

And  these  words  fiercely  spoke : 

"  Black  is  the  evil  bird — 

Black  are  the  clouds  of  night — 

Black  was  the  young  Pokomah's  hair. 
But  contrast  maktts  them  white, — 

"  Wliite  as  the  wild  swan's  breast 
Whose  feathers  plume  this  dart, 

White  as  the  winter's  new-bom  snow, 
Beside  the  pale  man's  heart 

"  Over  the  dreary  moor, 

Over  the  steep  hill-side. 
And  over  the  prairie  and  through  the  wood, 

And  over  the  rivers  wide, 


654 


GRANVILLK   M.    BALLARD. 


'^  Pearly  and  late  and  long, 

Ti)n>ii<;li  rain  and  drifting  snow, 

In  ttu*  blaze  of  day  and  the  black  of  night, 
In  (jucst  of  blood  ril  go.** 

P^ajrlo  Eye  next  stood  up, 

Of  all,  he  was  the  pride ; 
In  mournful  numbers  he  bewailed 

Tlie  fate  of  hid  young  bride. 

"  Wh<*r(?  has  Pokomah  gone  ? 

Pokoniah,  where  id  she? 
Oh,  wind  tliat  bloweth  her  long  black  hair, 

Bring  my  Fokomah  to  me. 

'^  For  oh !  she  was  the  light 

That  nestled  in  my  eye ; 
She  made  my  heart  as  light  as  the  cloud 

That  swims  U|)on  the  sky. 

"  Li;;hter  than  eider-<lown 

Was  my  Pokomalfs  step. 
And  hrighu'r  her  dreams  tlian  gilded  mom. 

When  on  my  arm  she  slept 

**  Oh,  treacherous  {)ale-face  man, 
Thv  breath  doth  taint  the  air; 

My  faitliful  arrow  sliall  pierce  thy  heart, 
For  thou  hsist  wronged  me  there. 

"Til  scour  the  forest  through 

III  si'arch  of  the  cowardly  wight; 

BI<kmI  for  blood  is  the  red  man*s  code, 
And  Tm  for  blood  this  night.** 

Til  en  all  wiis  still  again 

Itt'iicath  old  Gnarlwoo<l  Tn»e, 

Aihl  tliroiiirh  its  branches  the  west  wind 
piavt'd 
A  inuunifnl  in(*I<idy. 

Aii'l  ;»!!  :ln'  -t:ir>  «'\«»lvcd 

A  jtii;!*-  and  hnly  li^rlit, 
A-  \\\\i  I\:iis,  Klk,  and  Ka«:le  Kye  vowed 

To  l)f  rr\fn;'i'd  tiiat  niyht. 

But  wljrii  thr  ro-sv  morn 
Tm  tnkt'iM'tl  the  early  day, 


Those  Indian  bravesi  with  bow 
Were  man j  m  mile  mwaj. 


Tliey  held  an  even 
Toward  the  tiung 

Nor  deemed  their  joumcj 
But  only  jaat  b^gnn. 


Onward  through 

And  thicket:^  of  wild 

Feeding  upon  the  hickorj 
And  on  the  ripening  haw; 

Over  the  mighty  rirera, 
And  over  the  windiag  riDi; 

And  over  a  thousand  ahadowj 
And  over  a  thousand  hflii ; 


Onward  thej  held  their 
Through  manj  a  daj 

Until  the  mountains  had 
And  then  were  lost  to 


Then  cautiously  and  alow 
Their  journey  they 

For  over  the  hill-tops  jost 
A  dozen  houses  stood. 


One  from  all  the 

Xesth^l  amid  the 
And  over  its  wooden  linteb 

The  grateful  eglantine. 


Sweet  briers  from  the 
Within  the  garden 

And,  dropping  gold. 
From  Europe's 


Within  it!i  floweiy  walks 
There  stood  a  maiden  tUIr^ 

And  >Ii«*  was  placing  the 
Aniuiig  her  chestnot 


Lucllo  was  her  name, 
A  lady  of  high 

Rom  in  a  land  of  soft 
Beyond  the  *4iiii»mhj 


1850-60.] 


GRANVILLE   M.    BALLARD. 


665 


One  year  before  she  came 

From  silvery  Guadalquivir, 
Never  to  strike  the  sweet  guitar 

Again  upon  that  river. 

And  in  that  cottage  lived 

Her  cousin,  Rodriga, 
A  hunter  bold — but  now,  alack. 

An  hundred  miles  away. 

The  braves  approached  the  fence. 

For  *twas  the  closing  day, 
And  Eagle  Eye  scaled  the  picket  walls 

And  seized  upon  his  prey. 

And  when  the  morning  dawned. 

The  captive  and  the  three 
Had  journeyed  many  a  silent  league 

Toward  old  Gnarlwood  Tree* 

For  there  was  Pokomah  slain 

By  Rodriga's  own  hand, 
And  thitherward,  many  and  many  a  moon, 

Tended  the  captive  band. 

The  winter  had  come  and  gone, 

Tlie  flower  encased  the  bee. 
And  green  leaves  welcomed  the  breezes 
back 

From  off  the  southern  sea ; 

The  vernal  sun  hung  high. 

And  loudly  sang  the  jay, 
And  flowers  exhaled  a  sweet  perfume 

Upon  the  first  of  May, 

When  she  that  once  had  lived 

In  lialls  beyond  the  tide, 
Knelt  a  captive  upon  the  green 

W'lure  young  Pokomah  died. 

As  I'.a^lt'  Kv(;  drew  his  bow, 

Ai^ain  the-^e  words  he  said, 
**  Blood  for  blood  was  the  olden  law 

That  turned  our  fathers  red." 

Swirt«»r  than  elk  or  deer 
Sped  his  unerring  dart, — 


It  parted  the  liquid  fields  of  air, 
Then  pierced  Luello's  heart 

Thus  in  years  now  olden. 

And  upon  the  first  of  May, 
Where  the  grass  grows  green  and  the  skj 
hangs  blue. 

And  the  robin  sings  all  day, 

Perished  the  beautiful  maiden. 
Who  came  o'er  the  chiming  sea, 

Even  from  silvery  Guadalquivir, 
Unto  old  Gnarlwood  Tree. 


ZULA  ZONG. 

Oyer  a  meadow  where  dandelions 

Were  crowned  with  airy  balls. 
Stood  a  cottage ;  and  eglantine. 
And  climbing  roses  loved  to  twine. 
With  many  a  beautiful  antique  vine, 
Over  its  wooden  walls. 

And  in  that  cottage  long  years  ago, 
Lived  beautiful  Zula  Zong. 

Her  voice  was  clear  as  a  silver  bell ; 

And  oh !  her  laugh,  it  cast  a  spell 

Over  the  depths  of  sorrow's  well. 
Unknown  to  the  minstrel's  song. 

And  over  that  meadow  but  yesterday. 

The  old  path  led  me  on ; 
I  heard  no  voice,  as  in  years  af<M^, 
And  dimpled  cheeks  I  saw  no  more— 
With  tears  of  sorrow  my  eyes  run  o'er 

For  beautiful  Zula  Zong. 

Now  alders  grow  where  hollyhocks  grew. 

Over  that  meadow  all  brown ; 
And  red  briers  nod  to  the  mistletoe. 
Where  myrtle  and  woodbine  years  ago. 
Were  trained  with  a  hand  as  white  as 


snow 


> 


Over  that  meadow  so  brown. 


JOHN  T.   SWARTZ 


John  T.  Swaktz,  a  contributor  to  the  Ijadies^  Repository^  and  to  the  1 
Christian  Advocate  of  Cincinnati,  wiis  bom  in  Clark  county,  T«Mi^«^  gq 
ek'venth,  18.*}.'3.  His  parents  n*movod  to  Cincinnati  in  1841,  and  John  T.i 
the  public  <ichoo1s  until  he  was  pn*pan*(l  for  the  Woodward  Ili^  Scbool,frDi 
lie  ^raduatt'd  in  1A.')4.  lie  wsbi  iinm(*diutely  enpiged  as  a  teacher  in  one  of 
trict  schools,  and  was  thus  employed,  when  seized  with  the  diaeaf«  i 
death,  March  iiftli,  IHriD.  He  was  a  young  man  of  6chohirly  attainmenta 
character,  and  had  his  life  been  Hpared  would  liavc  made  a  name  in  our 


TIIKRE  ARE  NO  TEARS  IN  HEAVEN. 


I  saw  a  gentle  mother 

As  to  her  throbbing  heart  dK  ■ 
An  infant,  Reeminglj  asleef^ 
On  its  kind  mother^*  ftheh'riag  I 
**Fuir  one,-  said  I,  ^praj,  i 
more;** 
Sobbetl  she,  ••The  idol  of  i 
I  now  am  called  to  render 
My  babe  has  reached  dealh'f 
shore." 
Yotin?  mother,  jiold  no  more  to  y 
Nor  Ih!  by  |Mi8«ion*s  tenpert  dif 

;  Hut  find  in  these  HweM 

I 

•*  There  are  uo 


I  MET  a  child;  his  feet  wore  bare; 

His  weak  frame  shivered  with  the  cold; 
His  youthful  brow  was  knit  by  care, 
His  fla^<hing  eye  his  sorrow  told. 

Sai<l  I,  '•  Poor  Iwy,  why  weejK'st  thou?** 
1  le  said,  **  My  {Nin^nis  both  are  dead ; 
I  have  not  wh«*n;  to  lay  my  head; 
O,  I  am  lone  and  friendless  now  1  *' 
Not  friendless,  child ;  a  Frien«l  on  high 
F(»r  you  his  pnM'i«)us  bluod  has  ;riven ; 
CIhmt  up,  and  bid  i*ach  tear  Ix*  dry — 
*' There  are  no  tear*  in  heaven." 

I  saw  a  man  in  life's  ^^av  n<K)R,  I**>or  trav'ler  o'er  life's  troabkd  «l 

Slaiul  wtM'pinjro'rr  his  youn;^  bridt's  hwT\'     C'as!  down  by  grief,  o*erwhelaMdb 
*'And  nujst  we  part,"  he  cried,  "so  s<K»nI"  .There  is  an  arm  above  eaa  «iv«k 

A^  df»wn  liis  ehofk  tht-n*  nilh'*!  a  tear.    \ 
"  llrart->!ri<'ken  one,"  saiil  I,  "weep- 
not;"  I 
"Wirp  not!"    in  a<*c«*nts  wild  hel 

cri^'d, 
**  \\\\\  veMerdav  niv  h»ved  one  died.; 
And  -hall  >he  br  -o  mmhi  torgot?" 
Fiu-L''iii'n?     No!  .-till  l«'t  Imt  love 

Sii-iJiiii  tliv  in-art,  with  aiiirui^h  riven; 
Slrl\«'  tlmii  \t\  !iMM  t  thv  brill*'  above, 
Ainl  di'v  \our  trars  in  heaven. 


TIh'ti  vieM  not  thoa  to  fell 
l^M>k  upward,  moameti^ 
What   though    the 

hiud ; 
The  Sim  shines  br^^hC  beji 
cloud ; 
IMieri  tni^t  in  thj 
WhcHMT  thy  lot  in  life  be 

Whatf 'cr  of  toil  or  woe  be 
lie  tinn — n*member  to  the 
"Then*  are  no 


( e.'ie ) 


CARRIE  CLARK  PENNOCK. 


In  the  years  1856  and  1857,  a  number  of  poems,  which  attracted  attention  bj  the 
promise  they  gave  of  future  excellence,  were  publislied  in  the  Mahoning  Register, 
conducted  by  James  Dumars,  at  Youngstown,  Ohio.  The  following  year  graceful 
poems  from  the  same  pen  were  given  to  the  readers  of  the  Ohio  Farmer^  and  of 
the  Home  Journal  of  New  York  city.  Several  of  them  were  spoken  of  with  merited 
approbation  by  Nathaniel  P.  Willis.  Their  author,  Carrie  Clark,  is  a  native  of  Ma- 
honing county,  Ohio.  She  was  bom  at  Boardman,  September  first,  1833.  Her 
parents  are  farmers,  and  her  early  life  was  spent  in  work  rather  than  in  study,  but  an 
irrepressible  passion  for  reading  and  writing,  led  her,  as  tlie  era  of  womanhood  ap- 
proached, to  the  acquisition  of  an  excellent  English  education.  She  writes  from  im- 
mediate impulse,  and  generally  upon  themes  of  ideal  beauty. 

In  October,  1859,  Miss  Clark  was  married,  at  the  homestead,  to  J.  H.  Pennock,  a 
physician  who  practices  his  profession  at  Bennington,  Morrow  county,  Ohio. 

The  poem  "  Leonore  "  is  first  published  in  these  pages.  It  is  "  of  imagination  all 
compact." 


LEONORR 

Where  the  Adige  sings  its  prelude 

Sweetly  to  the  murmuring  sea, 
And  the  Carnic-Alpine  mountains 

Send  their  torrents  to  the  lea ; 
Where  the  flashing  Adriatic 

Rocks  the  fearless  gondolier, 
And  the  barcarole  is  murmured, 

Plaintively,  from  cavalier ; 
Where  the  dark  Tyrolean  peasant 

Tunes  at  eve  his  simple  reed, 
To  the  dark-eyed  Tyrol  maiden. 

Tripping  o'er  the  dewy  mead ; 
There,   where   Adige  sends    her  trib- 
ute— 

Silvery  tribute  to  the  shore, 
Stands  an  old  and  ruined  castle. 

Strangely  traced  with  ivy  o'er ; 
And  its  crumbling  walls  still  echo 

To  the  name  of  Leonore— 
(657 

42 


Lost  Le'nore, 

Bright  Le'nore, 
High-born,  peerless  Leonore. 
And  the  waves  along  the  shore, 
Ever,  ever,  evermore, 
Chant  the  dirge  of  fair  Le'nore. 
Through  the  castle's  pillared  halls, 
Mournfully  a  spirit  calls, 

Leonore, 

Fair  Leonore, 
At  rest  upon  th'  eternal  shore, 

Leonore, 

Bright  Leonore— 
Her  white  ¥rings  folded  evermore. 

Bound  the  castle  turrets  high 
Floats  the  bird  with  sleepless  eye ; 
From  the  loop-hole's  dizzy  height. 
Shrieks  the  dusky  bird  of  night ; 
And  through  tower  and  frescoed  room. 
Damp  and  lonely  as  the  tomb. 
Flits  the  bird  of  ebon  plume. 


) 


6.'>8 


CARKIK    C.    PENNOCK. 


IW 


Jjcmg  the  s^;nc.'«r)ial  liatli  slept, 
SiiK'e  th(f  mairlcn  Imth  \)een  wopt, 
And  the  clanging  drawhrid<;e*.s  fall, 
Kingfi  no  more  through  ca:3tl(;.liall; 
Stately  knights  and  dames  no  more 
Tn?ad  the  halls  of  Elhu«more ; 
And  tlifi  lonely  turrf»t-bell, 
When  it  tolled  the  fatal  knell 
C)f  Le'nore,  the  lost  Le'nore, 
Woke  its  echoes  nevermore  ; 

Strange  to  tell, 

The  turret  bell 
Tolled  its  own  and  Le*nore*8  knell. 

Once,  from  yonder  battlements, 

Ijooking  o'er  tlie  dim  sea-shore, 
Out  upon  the  Adriatic, 

Gazed  the  maiden  Leonore ; 
Ever  watching,  ever  praying, 

As  she  scanned  the  waters  o'er, 
For  the  white  t-ail,  for  the  [)ennon. 

For  the  one  that  came  no  more ; 
Northward,  then,  along  the  Adige, 

To  tlie  Tyrol's  dusky  height. 
Gazed  the  maiden,  till  her  beauty 

And  her  briglitness  mocked  the  night. 
Came  no  white  plume,  came  no  horseman, 

Came  no  sound  of  bugle-horn  ; 
Watching,  till  the  distant  orient 

Bade  approach  of  early  mom ; 
Only  sjing  the  gentle  Adigo 

Sweetly  to  the  murmuring  sea ; 
Oidy  wmg  the  Alpine  torn*nt3 

lIo:irsely  to  the  verdant  lea ; 
Only  nmg  the  mastilf's  baying 

Sadly  througli  the  castle-hall; 
Only  shrinked  the  dusky  owh*t 

From  his  h>o|)-hoU>  in  the  wall ; 
Onlv  moaned  the  dir^ije-like  waters 

On  the  Adriatic  shore ; 
Still  Le'nore, 
The  lo>t  L«;'iu>re, 
Gazed  for  one  that  ciime  no  more. 

Onc«'  the  jirav -haired  seneschal, 
IxK)king  upward  through  the  night, 


Caught  a  gleam  of  aoowj 

Fluttering  from  the  tnrrec' 
And  a  voice  of  earnest  prai 

Diefl.  like  masic,  on  tbe 
And  the  old  man  eoochlj 

Twas  tbe  voice  of 
Idle  tale  at  Ellas 
Laughed  the  old  man** 

Deeme«l  thej  'twas 
Shunned  the  haunted 

LeA  tiie  maiden  to 
Last  was  she  of  that  pitmd 
Destined  soon  to  share  a 
By  her  haughty  sires  of  jon. 
By  the  lords  of  EUanBora, 
Sweetly  sleeping  where  the 
Murmurs  to  the  dim 
And  the  troubled 
Cliants  the  dirge  of  &ir 


Watched  the  gray-haired 

And  the  band  at 
Watched  the  maiden 

Watched  the  fading 
Till,  at  times,  in  suoth  it 

Not  Le'nore,  their 
But  an  angel  sent  to  guide 

Upward,  to  the  eternal 


t 


i 


Gone,  one  morning,  was  ^kt 

Gone  from  castle  and  fion 
And  the  Adige  knew  not  of 

Nor  her  own  most 
And  for  beauteoos 
Wasi  wailing  loud  at 
And  cheeks  were  Wanfhed  bj  ■ 

fears. 
And  dark  eyes  shone 

tears. 


Could  the  Alpine  torrents 
Th<y  could  told  of  lost 

Kneeling  on  the  stony 
Gazing  toward  tlie  dim 

And  the  stars,  those 
They  coold  told  of 


1850-60.] 


CARRIE    C.    PENNOCK. 


659 


Where  the  battlements'  dark  outlines 
Crown  the  heights  of  Ellasmore. 


Spake  tlie  aged  seneschal : 

"  Bring  to  me  the  turret  key, 
Northward,  looking  o'er  the  Tyrol, 
Southward  o'er  the  billowy  sea ; 
For  I  bethink  me  yesternight 
I  caught  a  gleam  of  vestments  white, 
Upon  the  battlements'  dark  height ; 
And  words,  methought,  of  earnest  prayer, 
And  white  hands  clasped  in  moonlit  air; 
Twas  Leonore,  for  ne'er  before 
Prayed  maiden  like  blessed  Leonore." 
Some  spake  of  sacrilege,  to  dare 
The  turret's  strange,  and  weird-like  air, 
And  bade  to  chapel  first,  to  prayer. 
But  swiftly,  through  the  castle-hall, 
lie  hies  him  to  its  northern  wall. 
Plants  the  huge  key,  and  quickly  dares. 
The  turret's  dark  and  tortuous  stairs. 

The   height   was   w^on;    there,   on   the 

floor. 
Her  face  turned  toward  the  dim  sea-shore, 
Lay  Leonore,  fair  Leonore, 
Bright,  beauteous,  hapless  Leonore, 
Her  pillow^  but  the  turret  stone. 
The  turret  shadows  o'er  her  thrown. 
And  her  dark  tresses,  like  the  night, 
Vailing  a  form  of  wondrous  light. 

And  they  laid  her  where  the  Adige 

Sings  its  prelude  to  the  sea, 
And  the  dark  Tyrolean  mountains 

Send  their  torrents  to  the  lea; 
And  the  castle  now  is  crumbling. 

Gone  the  light  of  Ellasmore, 
Gone,  to  beacon  onward  wand'rers. 

Seeking  for  that  unseen  shore; 
Done  with  watching,  done  with  praying 

On  the  turret's  lonely  height, 


Done  with  waiting  and  with  weeping, 
Through  the  long  and  weary  night ; 

And  the  casket  sweetly  slumbers, 
Where  the  Adige  to  the  shore 

Sends  its  tribute,  and  the  billows 
Chant  the  dirge  of  fair  Le'nore. 


A  PICTURE. 

'Twas  of  a  maiden,  wondrous  fair. 
With  wildering  curls  of  raven  hair. 
That  draped  her  snowy  neck  and  arms, 
And  kissed  her  bosom's  dimpled  charms, 
Yet  through  whose  meshes,  dark  as  night, 
Came  glimpses  of  her  beauty  bright ; 
As  sometimes  through  a  cloud,  afar. 
Come  glinmierings  of  the  evening  star. 
One  snowy  arm  across  her  breast. 
The  silken  boddice  lightly  pressed ; 
And  nestled  'mid  the  laces  light, 
Four  dimpled  fingers,  soft  and  white ; 
As  though,  before  the  mirror's  face, 
With  careless  and  bewitching  grace, 
She  dressed  her  swaying  form,  perchance. 
To  glide  through  some  fair  country  dance; 
And  then  her  eye,  so  soft,  so  bright. 
Gazelle-like  in  its  changeful  light, 
Beneath  whose  darkly  fring^  lid, 
Young  Cupid  kept  his  sorrows  hid, 
And  sent,  with  swift,  unerring  art, 
Their  stinging  points  to  many  a  heart 
The  lips  were  closed,  yet  all  the  while. 
Half  trembled  'twixt  a  sigh  and  smile. 
For  Love,  the  rogue,  though  unconfessed, 
Had  stolen  coyly  to  her  breast, 
Illuming  with  his  tender  rays, 
The  picture  fair,  that  those  who  gazed. 
Might  drink  somewhat,  from  that  sweet  face. 
An  angel's  purity  and  grace. 


t*«i 


LOUISA   A.  M'GAFFEY. 


Louisa  Amelia  Pratt,  who  is  known  as  Rctii  Ckatnb,  wi 
tieth  day  of  January,  1833,  at  the  residence  of  her  parents  Fletcher  and 
who  are  influential  among  the  prospi^rous  farmers  of  Darby  Ploiiu, 
Ohio.     Mi.ss  Pratt  was  carefully  e(lucate<l,  and  she  rewarded  the 
her  by  attaining  unusual  excellence,  es{)ecially  in  tlie  higher 
sical  studies.     Her  poems  have  fx.'cn  chiefly  published  in  the    Okia 
Odd  Fellow^  Ccuket  and  Review^  Cinciimati,  and  the  Ohio  Pi 
ap]K*ared  in  print  at  the  earnest  solicitations  of  friends,  who 
ness  of  thought  ant]  style  deserving  tlie  attention  of  lovers  of 

Miss  Pnitt  was  married  April  fourth,  1855,  to  John  McGmffej  an 
Springfield,  Ohio,  where  she  now  resides. 


I 


f 


THE  IlILL-TOP. 

Stat,  rest  awhile,  the  way  was  steep ; 

This  shade  is  cool,  Uiis  wind  is  balm, 
And  all  the  world  lies  tranced  in  deep 

And  breathless  hush  of  noonday  calm. 
Sit  down,  sweet  friend — this  mossy  seat 

Invites  repose — while  we  recount 
The  long,  long  miles  our  weary  feet 

Have  measured  to  tills  lofty  mount. 

The  hidden  pitfalls  we  liave  jMissed, 

Hy  God's  good  grace,  in  safety  o'er, 
The  bridges  frail,  on  which  we've  crossed,! 

Above  the  torrent's  sullen  roar. 
The  gloomy  pines  that  hid  the  day. 

The  traceless  plains  of  naked  sand, 
The  rugged  roughness  of  the  way 

That  mocked  our  strength  on  every  hand: 

All  these,  and  more,  behind  us  lie. 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  fair  scene. 

This  eireliiig  glow  of  earth  and  sky. 
Our  jouniey  seems  a  vanished  dream. 


How  full  of  God  the  bhie  abofvib 

Instinct  with  Grod  the 
And  radiant  stau'wayB 
On  which  His  angeb 


Seem  standing;  between 

On  days  of  heavenlj 
And  softlv  oomefl  the 

For  all,  in  alL  oof  li 
And  then  we  think  our  dajs 

(How  vainly    think) 
grace 
Tlie  Temple  of  oar  Hveiy 

May  always  find  a 


So  looking  o'er  this  toilMMM  Aqf', 

On  outstretched  whigi  mj 
And  as  this  mount  befbie  ■■  kj. 

The  Hill  of  Life  befim  m 
I  know  the  morning  dew  is 

Tliat  romance  can  deeeiie 
That  the  cool  baiidni  of  fha 

Our  faded  fli        i 


(660) 


^3i 


1860-60.] 


LOUISA   A.   MoGAFFEY. 


661 


But  only  that  fresh  blooms  may  spring, 

More  fadeless  and  more  fair  than  they ; 
But  only  that  our  souls  may  sing 

A  deeper,  more  inspiring  lay ; 
Outside  youth's  barred  and  crystal  gates, 

Rise  deeper  flood-tides  of  the  soul, 
Larger  the  destiny  that  awaits. 

Wider  the  waters  round  us  rolL 

Lo !  part  way  up  the  steep  ascent, 

'Mid  fates  of  ice  and  fire  we  stand, 
Three  in  one  mystic  union  blent. 

An  angel  guide  on  either  hand. 
How  can  we  fear,  how  shall  we  fear. 

With  mercies  showering  from  above, 
And  voices  whispering  far  and  near, 

"  God's  providence  is  always  love?" 

Soon  shall  the  prospect  wider  grow, 

New  worlds  spring  up  beneath  our  gaze, 
And  airs  instinct  with  sweetness  blow 

Along  the  flow'ry  mountain  ways. 
While  looking  back,  the  rugged  plain 

O'er  which  we  come  shall  seem  so  fair. 
We  only  see  its  gulfs  of  pain 

Overflow  with  purple  morning  air. 

How  beautiful  our  upward  path, 

With  God  to  grant  our  daily  need  I 
Our  guardian  angels,  Hope  and  Faith, 

The  white-browed  innocent  we  lead, 
Whose  sweet,  wide  eyes  of  wonder  are 

Wells  of  delight,  brimful  of  joy. 
Wherein,  as  in  the  morning  star. 

Heaven's  light  reflects  without  alloy. 

The  summit  gained,  how  wide  the  view, 

How  fairer  than  our  fairest  dreams  I 
How  melt  the  morning  tops  in  blue, 

How  rich  the  light  that  round  us  streams  I 
Our  passions  lay  themselves  to  sleep, 

The  shade  is  cool,  the  wind  is  balm, 
And  all  our  world  lies  tranced  in  deep 

And  holy  hush  of  noonday  cahn. 

Not  long  we  linger ;  time  cries  "  On !  ** 
And  onward  with  the  waning  day. 


With  Altering  steps  we  go,  and  wan, 
But  love  immortal  leads  the  way  i 

We  shall  not  fear  the  dense  white  vail, 
That  shrouds  the  valley  at  our  feet. 

For  underneath  that  phantom  pale, 
Hides  Mirza's  Vision  grand  and  sweet 

So  from  these  autumn  ripened  hours, 

Pve  drawn  these  fancies  to  beguile, 
With  their  symbolic  fruits  and  flowers. 

Our  downward  way  for  many  a  mile. 
But  come,  the  day  wanes  on  apace. 

The  evening  wind  begins  to  blow, 
The  way  is  rough  in  many  a  place. 

The  valley  darkens ;  let  us  go. 


MORNING  IN  THE  CITY. 

Cold  and  clear  o'er  roof  and  spire 
The  morning  light  is  breaking, 

And  like  a  giant  in  its  might, 
The  dty  is  awaking. 

No  choral  greeting  from  the  birds. 

No  sound  of  cattle  lowing. 
No  swift,  fr^e  winds  on  tireless  wings. 

O'er  field  and  woodland  blowing. 

But  famtly  on  the  frt)sty  air, 

A  low  and  distant  hunmiing, 
That  growing  near  and  nearer  stiU, 

Proclaims  the  day  is  coming. 

Through  wide,  still  streets,  with  merry  clang, 
The  morning  bells  are  peaHng, 

Through  murky  lanes,  where  misery  hides, 
A  cold  gray  light  is  stealing. 

Now  pours  the  human  tide  along, 

Old  man  and  maiden  tender. 
Grave  manhood  and  youth's  happy  &ce, 

In  the  early  morning  splendor. 


ISA  AMEND  EBERHART. 


Is  A  Amend  Eberhaut  was  bom,  May  eighth^  1834,  in 
vania.    In  a  note  to  a  friend,  who  requested  facts  for  a  biogivphie 


,Vm 


My  father  is  a  fanner,  and  the  Btory  of  my  education  U  simply  the 
sand  times  by  the  ambitious  poor.    I  carried  my  algebra  and  Latin 
and  I  watched  them  more  closely  than  I  did  the  stamps.    I  plnnod  the 
of  my  shovel-plow,  and  learned  them  whilst  plowing  com.    Aboat  bIz  J( 
passed  away,  and  I  found  myself  in  a  land  of  darkness  and  sorrow.    It 
me,  like  a  mother,  taking  me  in  her  arms  and  lifting  me  oat  of  night. 


eooe 


■0O  af  iH  I 


Mr.  Eberhart  is  a  schoolmaster.    His  present  residence  ia 
poems  have  appeared  in  various  Chicago  papers,  but  chiefly  in 
Home  Journal. 


the  JAkI.1 


ONLY  ONE  LEFT. 

In  the  holj  arms  of  Sabbath 

All  the  city  lies  asleep, 
And  from  out  their  twilight  curtains, 

One  by  one  the  young  stars  peep, 
While  the  sweep  of  angel  pinions 

Murmurs  music  low  and  deep. 

I  am  looking  from  my  window. 
Peace  and  beauty  fill  my  eye, 

But  I  see  a  tall  tree  near  me 
Liil  iti%  bare  arms  to  the  sky, 

And  I  turn  from  all  this  beauty, 
Sudly  turn  awaj  and  sigh. 

All  its  Icavos,  but  one,  have  perished 
In  the  cohl  and  wint'ry  air. 

And  that  lone  leaf  trembles,  clinging 
Near  its  heart,  as  in  despair, 

While  the  branches,  clo}»ing  round  it, 
Point  to  heaven  as  if  in  prayer. 

Vn^ai  a  world  of  wild  emotions 

Through  my  ppirit  surge  and  swell  ? 


Oh !  I  know  a  heait  whose 
In  that  kme  tree  aeeoM  to 

And  the  scene  is  eedlj 
Thoughts  that  laognage 


Yes,  that  heart's  young 
ished, 

For  the  storms  of  ^<i^tfi 
From  its  side  the  loved 

Kindred  spirit  to  its 
Still  one  hope — the  hope  of 

Closely  clings,  thoa^  all 


jrO,  ask  the  smiling 

The  stars  that  sweetly 
fbe  merry  brook  or  hap|iy 

If  man  should  e*er  icphw  i 
The  moon,  the  stan.  the 

Will  laugh  the  thoa^ 
And  echo  back  these 

Man  was  not  male  to 


*  tf! 


JOHN  J.  PIATT. 


John  James  Piatt  was  bom  on  the  first  day  of  March,  in  the  year  1835,  at  a 
village  now  called  Milton,  four  miles  from  Rising  Sun,  Indiana.  Hia  early  boyhood 
was  spent  on  a  farm,  but  his  parents,  John  Bear  and  £mily  Scott  Piatt,  having  re- 
moved to  Ohio,  in  the  vicinity  of  its  Capital,  John  J.  was  apprenticed  to  Charles  Scott, 
then  publisher  of  the  Ohio  State  Journal.  He  there  learned  the  printing  business, 
enjoying  irregular  opportunities  for  the  acquisition  of  "  a  little  Latin  and  less  Greek," 
at  the  Columbus  High  School  and  at  Eenyon  College.  He  has  been  known  as  a  poet 
about  eight  years,  but  not  widely  until  1858,  when  several  poems,  written  by  hun  for 
the  Louisville  Journal^  were  warmly  commended  and  republished  by  many  influential 
papers.  In  1859  he  became  a  contributor  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  his  poem,  "The 
Morning  Street,"  was  ascribed  to  poets  who  deservedly  have  national  reputations. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  year  1860,  Follett,  Foster  and  Company  published  a  neat  du- 
odecimo volume  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  pages,  entitled  "Poems  of  Two  Friends" 
— Mr.  Piatt  and  William  D.  Howells  acknowledged  the  friendship  and  the  poems  of 
the  volume.  It  was  noticed  with  flattering  encouragement  by  leading  journalists  not 
only  in  the  West  but  in  eastern  cities.  We  cannot  better  characterize  Mr.  Piatt's 
merits  as  a  poet  or  the  promise  of  the  volume  than  by  making  the  following  quotation 
from  a  notice  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  April,  1860 : 

The  volume  is  a  very  agreeable  one,  with  little  of  the  cmdenesB  bo  generally  characteristic  of 
first  ventures, — not  more  than  enough  to  augur  richer  maturity  hereafter.  Dead-ripeness  in  a  first 
book  is  a  fatal  symptom,  sure  sign  that  the  writer  is  doomed  forever  to  that  pale  limbo  of  foultless- 
ness  from  which  there  is  no  escape  upward  or  downward.  We  can  scarce  find  it  in  our  hearts  to 
make  any  distinctions  in  so  happy  a  partnership ;  bat  while  we  see  something  more  than  promise  in 
both  writers,  we  have  a  feeling  that  Mr.  Piatt  shows  greater  originality  in  the  choice  of  snbjecta.  .  .  . 
Both  of  them  seem  to  us  to  have  escaped  remarkably  from  the  prevailing  conventionalisms  of  verae, 
and  to  write  meter  because  they  had  a  genuine  call  thereto.  We  are  pleased  with  a  thorough  Weat- 
ern  flavor  in  some  of  the  poems.  We  welcome  cordially  a  volume  in  which  we  recognize  a  fresh 
and  authentic  power,  and  expect  confidently  of  the  writers  a  yet  higher  achievement  ere  long.  The 
pm>ms  give  more  than  glimpses  of  a  faculty  not  so  common  that  the  world  can  afford  to  do  with- 
out it. 


THE  STRANGE  ORGANIST— A  PRELUDE. 

Deep  in  the  strange  Cathedral  gloom, 
Where  incense  all  the  ages  rose, 

I  stand  alone.     The  mystic  bloom 
Of  saintful  silence  round  me  glows. 


High  Church  of  Song!     The  hallowed 
place 
Where  haunt  the  hymns  of  bards  of 
old  I 
Above  the  organ  Shakspeare's  face 
I  dream — hear  Milton's  soul  oatrolled. 


(665) 


JOnS   J.   PIATT. 


[» 


>:•-;>  ir.  :!.••  dim  CailifnlnJ  hu>ti,  Thui  tbu  mimagK  quirt.  wkcR  ike  n 

I  i!ar.J  akine.     The  organ's  ke^i  Of  life,  upbmred  oa  either  ade, 

:  lo'i'!'!.  Hi:li  hom'.-k-:-.''  liij^r».     Ulu^-h,  Hangc  irembling,  ready  mMM  H^s 

Sail  =oui ! — wLaE  Lunabnics  are  tlie^  ?  With  faumaa  vstc*  the  SiqnHg  Sm 

Af  e,  Mxtn  the  plowing 
■    ^  -  I  Puuis  throu^  thu 

lAUoilent  n. 

'  Will  tourmur  lo  the  lUBg  Ma 
Th«  busr  life  ibu  vein  wiU  ba 
Die  nirh  of  wh««l«,  tbe  twarm 
*  strant-e  wi'l  «we«  ;,The  Anwhoe-ttewMU-wT 

Tbt!  Life  irin  flttV^  i^  : 
The  bridal  [hnmg^  the 
To^tlier  in  ihe  yivwd 
And  pa5s  within  the  Ui 


THE  MOKSISG  STREET. 


I  WALK,  alone,  the  Mominj;  Street, 
Filk-I  uith  ll> 

Alt  iii:>-N)j!  sm  lunv,  as  «lill,  aa  dead. 
At  if  iinnumben:)!  ytrari  h^  fled, 
Lflliii;;  llie  uoUj'  llobeJ  he 
Witliuut  a  breath — a  nicmon' ! 
The  li^'lii  wind  wulk:>  witii  mi',  olone, 
Wlicn.'  the  hoi  dity  like  Hume  was  blown; 
■Wli'-n-  tlic  wlifcoU  roared  and  duiil  wa 

Ixar. 
Tlie  dew  is  in  the  Morning  Street. 

Wliprc  arc  the  restless  throiigii  that  pour 

A  lung  til  id  mighty  oorriiiur 

'While   ihi;   noon    flaraea  ?    the    hurrying 

crowd 
WliOM:  f>K)i:<t<-pr(  mnke  the  city  loud  ? 
The  myriad  faoe>?  hearts  that  beat 
N.)  iiicjn-  i[i  the  de.^erlcd  f'tn.et  ? 
Tlioi-p  ri)otstep:<,  ill  their  dn-atn-land  iniue, 
Cio-s  ilin'^hiilils  of  ror<„iitleii  d:iyii ; 
Tliosi;  fai-i-A  bri<;hien  fnim  the  years 
In  morning  siiiis  long  Ht   in  ti-un  ; 
Tin.-.'  h.iirl>— far  ill  itie  im*t  tliey  beat- 
Are  singing  in  their  Morning  Stn-ct. 

A  riiy  'giiinst  thi'  ivorldV  gniy  prime, 
L.i-1  in  >i>ii»-  d.-^.Tt.  f„r  fnim  time, 
Wli.iv  ju.U-\r^<  iigi's.  gliding  through, 
lU,v.  only  Hfi.-.|  sjiruN  nii.l  .lew— 
Vi'I  still  a  marble  hand  uf  man 
Lvlng  on  all  thi- haunted  plan; 


of   llil 


:  111.-  marliK-  l.ivi.st  of  Art- 


[oraaf  8owt 


THE  NIGBT-TRAEI. 

A  TREMBLixo  hand — a  H^cn^ 
the  bominK 
Of  reatle«s  pwitio  ""i^Iili  i  i^ 
{lart: 
Ah:  elowly  from  the  daik  te  i 
turning 
When   midnight  Man  an  m  a 

The  sirceid  are  ligfaied,  a^  Ifcc 

Steal  through  the  gaa-^hl,  wtt 

home-led  feet, 
Passini;  me,  homeleu:  nred  ^ 

embraces 
Charm  ninnjr  a   thiMhoU— 4^ 

]Lii*es  aw«eL 

From  great  holeb  the  alfa^v  A 
Pt  reaming— 
Till-  rcxileu  wheds  m  n^f  a« 


1850-60.] 


JOHN   J.   PIATT 


667 


Within  the  depot,  in  the  gas-light  gleam- 
ing, 
A  glare   of  faces,  stands   the  waiting 
crowd. 

Soon  will  the  web  of  streets  be  quiet,  ly- 
insf 
In    dew — the    human   hive    no    more 
a-swarm ; 
And  soon  the  charmed  silence.  Slumber, 
flying 
Into  the  myriad  heart,  will  nestle  warm. 

The  whistle  screams :  the  wheels  are 
rumbling  slowly ; 

The  path  before  us  glides  into  the  light : 
Behind,  the  city  kisses  Silence  holy  ; 

The  panting  engine  leaps  into  the  night. 

I  seem  to  see  each  street  a  mystery  grow- 

ing» 

Bounded  by  dream-lands — Time-forgot- 
ten air : 
Does   no   sweet   soul,   awaking,  feel  me 
going  ? 

Loves  no  sweet  heart  in  dreams  to  keep 
me  there  ? 


THE  WESTERN  PIONEER.' 

Into  the  prairies'  boundless  blossom. 
Into  the  wide  West's  sunburnt  bosom, 

The  earliest  emigrants  came : 
The  flowers,  like  sunny  miracles,  grew 
Before  them,  fragrant,  from  the  dew, 

Filling  the  grass  like  flame  ! 

From  some  old  land  of  song  and  life — 
Of  man,  in  manhood's  glowing  strife, 

Departing  all  alone, 
And  journeying  with  the  journeying  sun, 


*  The  be«9  are  mid  to  hare  eyer  Bwarmed  irMtirard  be- 
fore the  steps  of  the  whites. 


They  came — their  busy  empire  won— 
Before  the  white  man  known. 

The  Indian  saw  the  moving  bees. 

From  flower  to  flower,  in  dream-like  breeze 

Blowing  their  pilgrim  way ; 
Or,  deep  in  honey  of  the  flower, 
Hanging  in  simshine  hour  by  hour. 

Dream  through  the  dreaming  day. 

He  saw  the  future's  garment  gleam 

O'er  mounds  of  tribes  and  legend-stream.— 

O'er  the  sweet  waste  of  flowers ; 
He  saw  his  hunting  ground — the  past  I 
Lit  with  the  domes  of  cities  vast — 

Glory  of  spires  and  towers ! 

Those  other  bees !  He  felt — ^he  saw, 
With  sorrowing  eye,  in  dreamy  awe. 

The  blossom  of  the  West 
Thrill  with  sunny-toiling  bees 
Of  busy  Freedom,  happy  Peace — 

Wide  blessings  and  the  bless'd. 

They  come  I    They  came  1     Lo !  they  are 

here! 
The  Indian  heart-beat  every  where 

Starts  echoes  wild  no  more ; 
The  leaves  have  fallen  fh)m  his  trees 
Of  life :  dead  leaves,  in  every  breeze, 

Rustle  for  evermore ! 


MOONRISR 

'Tis  midnight,  and  the  city  lies 
With  dreaming  heart  and  closed  eyes : 
The  giant's  folded  hands  at  rest, 
Like  Prayer  asleep,  are  on  his  breast 

From  window,  hushed,  I  see  alone 
The  tide-worn  streets  so  silent  grown : 
The  dusty  footprints  of  the  day 
Are  blessed  with  dew  and  steal  away. 


668 


JOHN   J.  PIATT. 


[IS 


0  scarce  a  pulse  of  sound !    Afar 
Flashes,  upon  a  spire,  a  star, 
And  in  tlie  East  a  dusky  light : 
Vailed  the  ghost-moon  steals  through  the 
night! 

Unvailing  slow,  her  face  of  blood 
Uplifting  in  the  solitude ! 
The  city  sleeps :  above,  behold 
The  moonrise  kiss  a  cross  of  gold ! 

Golden  in  air  that  cross :  at  rest 
Below,  the  city's  sleeping  breast ; 
And  on  the  cross,  moon-brightened,  see, 
Christ,  dying,  smiles  down  lovingly  I 


'^I  love *— jn  my  regret  are 

Low  echoes,  whupering  wordi  m 

Sweet  flowers,  remember  her,  apiR ; 
Write  your  sweet  postscripC  hat  I 

Upon  her  head-stone     in  my  heart ; 
My  rose  forgot  to  dimb  tot  Ibj. 


TWO  KINGS. 

Two  Kings,  in  vanished 
Swayed  kingdoms  fiur 

One's  scepter  was  a  bloody 
And  one's  a 


POSTSCRIPT. 

I  suALL  not  hear  from  her  again  : 

In  all  my  blushing  letters,  long 
I  stole  the  secret  from  my  pen, 

And  hid  it  in  unwritten  song. 
Her  letters,  sweet  as  roses  pressed. 

Bloom  from  my  dreaming  heart  to-day. 
Flushing  I  wrote,  in  sweet  unrest : 

My  rose  forgot  to  climb  for  May. 

Long  years :  for  her  another's  name — 

Another's  lip— another's  arm — 
(Ah,  crawl  into  the  ashes,  flame !) 

Another  heart — though  mine  was  warm. 
My  cricket,  hush !  his  mirth  is  stilled ; 

Dreum-llames     among     dream-embers 
play; 
Another  my  lost  heaven  has  filled : 

My  rose  forgot  to  climb  for  May. 

Ah,  well — the  Postscript  steals  at  last 
Beneath  shy  letters,  buried— dead : 


The  harvest  cradled  pknty. 
Where  reaped  that  bkwdy 

The  widows  wailed,  the 
War  wedded  a  waste 


The  harvest  cradled  plenty. 
That  loving  heart  eontrolled; 

The  mother  sang,  the  children  p^fii 
Peace  bound  her  sheaves  of  gtkL 


The  one  prepared  his 
The  people's  marbled 

The  pyramid  above  foigoC, 
Below,  the  crumbling 


Dust  in  the  vamshed 

Dust  lies  that  bloody 
Tliat  heart  beats  in  the 

And  blossoms  in  die  land- 
That  loving  King  is  reigung 

He  made  no  man  a 
In  the  people's  heart  they 

His  laws  are  on  his  ainiia  I 


m^ 


n 


ELVIRA  PARKER. 


Elvira  Parker,  who  is  well  known  as  a  oontributor  to  the  newspapers  and  mag- 
azines of  Cincinnati,  is  a  native  of  Philadelphia,  where  she  was  bom,  December 
twenty-sixth,  1835.  Mies  Parker  was  educated  at  "  The  Wesleyan  Female  College,*' 
Cincinnati.  She  now  resides,  with  her  mother,  in  the  village  of  Reading,  near  that 
city. 

Miss  Parker  writes  poetry  with  grace,  but  evidently  trusts  more  to  the  charm  of 
feeling  than  to  the  force  of  art. 


EOLINE. 

Come  balmy  gale,— or  zephyr  bland. 
That  fan  the  blossoms  of  our  land ; 
Come  gently  kiss  the  placid  brow, 
Nor  break   the   slumber,  calm,  and 
mild, 
That  holds  in  mystic  thraldom  now 
Our  wild,  capricious,  fitful  child ; 
For  wayward  oft,  her  moods,  as  thine, 
Wliom  we  call  strange,  sweet  Eoline. 

One  moment,  as  a  joyous  bird, 
Her  blissful  lay  of  mirth  is  heard ; 
As  silvery,  laughing  echoes  trip, 
In  rich,  delicious  cadence  gay, 
From  off  the  rosy,  budding  lip. 
Flowing  unchecked,  and  free  away, 
A  glad  enchantress,  and  divine, 
Seemeth  our  gleeful  Eoline. 

Then,  as  a  clouded  summer  sky, 
A  shadow  dims  her  beaming  eye ; 
A  pensive  sadness  checks  the  song. 

That  rose  in  sweet,  voluptuous  sound. 
A  wizard  spell  all  deep  and  strong, 
Her  every  thought  has  seeming  bound, 


Yet  knows  not  why  she  should  repine. 
Or  wherefore  weep — strange  Eoline. 

There's  magic  in  her  music  voice 
That  makes,  at  times,  the  heart  rejoice ; 
A  meaning  in  the  dark  orb's  h'ght. 

Beneath  its  jetty  fringe,  half  hid ; 
A  dawning  of  some  new-bom  might, 
When  blazing  from  the  upraised  lid. 
We  see  the  flame  of  mind  forth  shine. 
From  the  proud  soul  of  Eoline. 

Ye  scarce  would  know  her  path  of  years 
As  yet  had  led  'mid  sin  and  tears ; 
Or  that  her  truthful,  earnest  heart 
Had  felt  the  burden  of  despair. 
So  guileless  she,  and  free  of  art, 
So  trusting  and  so  child-like  fair. 
That  all  our  love  must  still  incline 
In  homage  to  sweet  Eoline. 

0,  like  a  wavelet  of  the  sea, 
A  wanton  wind  upon  the  lea, 
A  severed  petal  of  the  glade. 

That  playfully  flieth  here  and  there — 
An  April  mom  of  son  and  shade — 
A  happy  song,  a  mournful  prayer. 
Mystic  she  seemeth  and  divine. 
Whom  we  call  strange,  sweet  Eoline. 


(669) 


CORNELIA   W.   LAWS. 


Cornelia  Ellicott  Williams  is  the  dau<^hter  of  the  late  M.  CL  WUfivHif 
le^(;  Hill,  near  Cinnniuiti.  She  vpoa  educated  at  the  Oliio  Female  CoDe^  at  C« 
Hill,  whorrs  in  addition  to  her  attainnientA  in  more  sinlute  cttadies  sIm  took  kiffc 
for  the  eh';^ince  of  her  comiK>sition,  in  pro!>e  and  ver^e,  and  for  artiatie  akill  m  m 
Her  soul  is  full  of  song,  and  her  poetry  is  the  otf^priug  of  the  melodies  of  hcan 
voice. 

Mi^«s  Williams  was  married,  in  18r>7,  at  Syracuse.  New  Yoric,  to  JoMpk  P.  L 
a  mcTi'haiit  of  Richmond,  Indiana,  wlu're  nhe  now  re^ide^  Her  pocmt  hare  1 
contrilMit(*d  to  the  Cincinnati  Commercial  the  St,  Ijoui$  IJemoeraif  and  ^fi 
Journal^  and  some  of  them  very  exten^ively  copied  hy  the  Press.  She  fint  pdbfi 
"The  Emj)ty  Chair,"  in  1«5«;  the  next  year,  "Six  Little  Feet  on  the  Fcndo;* 
"  Behind  the  Post." 

Of  the  "  P^mpty  Chair,"  as  it  first  apfM^ared  in  the  Commereialf  George  W.  O 
thus  wrote  to  that  pafM^r :     ^  If  my  |K)or  judgment  is  worth  anj  Chiiig 
this  kin<l,  I  unhesitatingly  pronounce  it  *  beautiful  exceedinglj.*     I 
poems  in  our  hmguage,  that,  for  freshness  and  originality  of  thought,  j 
phor,  picturesque  arrangement,  pleasing  melody,  and  depth  of  patlioo, 
appn)a4*h  this  '  gem  of  purest  ray  serene,'  these  b<Miutiful  buds  of  pi 
commendations  apply  with  still  more  force  to  some  of  her  later 

Mrs.  Laws  is  still  in  the  bloom  imd  freshne^^s  of  early  womanhood; 
sions  fnim  her  pen  may  be  happily  styled  ^  the  beautiful  buds  of  p: 
ceile  and  foretell  the  flowers  and  fruitiigc  of  a  brilliant  summer  and 
of  life. 


TIIK  EMPTY  CHAIR. 

On  the  hrarlh,  the  embers  dying, 
1-  lii^h  tltf  (lai'knrss  as  they  fall, 

Ainl  the  -lin<l<iws  flitting,  flying, 
IMav  lik«*  wavr-;  u|M»n  tin*  wall. 

llitlnr.  tiiithrr  iIh'v  aiv  winging, 
H«'j'Iing  routrs  around  the  room, 

0\t  tlir  >il<'nt  pirSiirt's  flinging 
Fitful  palls  ot'  .•^ullcn  gloom. 


On  the  pool  the 

Cin-lf^ts  tripping  here 

(iuldfu  gleams  oft  inlem 
Stolen  from 


Through  the  drifting 
M:i>lly  r.u*e  the  jellow 

Anil  ilown  the  darkened 
Sti-eamletd  from  the 


.•H 


The  parted  curtains  i 
By  the  fsgot*s  B^ 


(  670) 


•r-  . 


1850-60.] 


CORNELIA    W.    LAWS. 


671 


Like  the  falling  snow-drifls  gleaming, 
O'er  a  lone  and  empty  chair. 

Where  the  church-bell  now  is  throbbing, 
Blended  with  the  storm's  refrain, 

O'er  a  grave  like  mourners  sobbing. 
Falls  the  plashing  Autumn  rain. 

Wild  the  shriveled  leaves  are  sweeping, 
Down  the  walks  upon  the  wind, 

And  with  loving  nestle  creeping 
In  the  footprints  left  behind. 

When  the  groves  with  buds  were  teeming, 
Wept  a  maiden  silent  there. 

Where  the  curtains  white  are  streaming 
O'er  that  lone  and  empty  chair. 

At  her  side  pale  blossoms  drumming 
Soft  against  the  window-pane, 

Seem'd  to  say,  "  He  is  not  coming — 
Cease, oh!  cease, thou  weep'st  in  vain." 

Alas !  with  weeping,  watching,  waiting. 
From  her  cheek  the  roses  fled ; 

But  with  fondness  unabating. 
Sunk  she  to  her  dreamless  bed. 

At  that  casement  still  is  basking 
Evermore,  that  empty  chair, 

And  its  silence  seems  an  asking 
For  that  pale  form,  passing  fair. 


SIX  LITTLE  FEET  ON  THE  FENDER. 

In  my  heart  there  liveth  a  picture, 

Of  a  kitchen  rude  and  old. 
Where  tlie  lirelight  tripped  o*er  the  rafters, 

And  reddened  the  roof's  brown  mould; 
Gilding  the  steam  from  the  kettle 

That  hummed  on  the  foot-worn  hearth, 
Throui^liout  all  the  livelong  evening 

Its  measure  of  drowsy  mirth. 


Because  of  the  three  light  shadows 

That  frescoed  that  rude  old  room — 
Because  of  the  voices  echoed. 

Up  'mid  the  rafters*  gloom — 
Because  of  the  feet  on  the  fender, 

Six  restless,  white  little  feet — 
The  thoughts  of  that  dear  old  kitchen 

Are  to  me  so  fresh  and  sweet. 

When  the  first  dash  on  the  window 

Told  of  the  coming  rain, 
Oh  !  where  are  the  fair  young  faces, 

That  crowded  against  the  pane? 
While  bits  of  firelight  stealing 

Their  dimpled  cheeks  between, 
Went  struggling  out  in  the  darkness, 

In  shreds  of  silver  sheen. 

Two  of  the  feet  grew  weary, 

One  dreary,  dismal  day. 
And  we  tied  them  with  snow-white  ribbons, 

Leaving  him  there  by  the  way. 
There  was  fresh  clay  on  the  fender 

That  weary,  wint*ry  night, 
For  the  four  little  feet  had  tracked  it 

From  his  grave  on  the  bright  hill's  height 

Oh !  why,  on  this  darksome  evening, 

This  evening  of  rain  and  sleet. 
Rest  my  feet  all  alone  on  the  hearthstone  ? 

Oh  I  where  are  those  other  feet  ? 
Are  they  treading  the  pathway  of  virtue 

That  will  bring  us  together  above  ? 
Or  have  they  made  steps  that  will  dampen 

A  sister's  tireless  love  ? 


BEHIND  THE  POST. 

The  tint  of  dying  day  reposes 
Lightly  on  the  blushing  roses ; 
Foolish  Nannie !  thus  to  wait. 
Sighing  at  the  garden  gate ; 
"  Never  fear !  never  fear  I" 
Some  one  said  it,  very  near. 


672 


COKNEMA    W.    LAWS. 


[IfeM 


Could  it  be  the  wind  a-sighing, 
Through  the  grass,  in  riplets  hieing, 
Further  on,  further  on, 
Chasmg,  racing,  down  tlie  lawn  I 
Much  I  fear,  much  I  fear 
No  one  said  it,  very  near. 

Fireflies  in  the  ravine  glimmer, 
And  the  maples  growing  dimmer, 
Quiet  from  the  hill-side  fade ; 
What  if  some  one  false  has  played  ? 
**  Never  fear !  never  fear ! " 
I'm  sure  I  heard  it,  very  near. 

I  shall  surely  soon  be  weeping— 
E'en  the  roses,  seem  as  peeping, 
Curious  through  the  garden  gate. 
Softly  saying,  "  He  is  late." 
And  they  seem  to  start  with  fear. 
As  they  blow  the  gate-post  near. 

Now  with  bent  heads  low  they  whisper, 
Telling  how  *'  he  came  and  kissed  her. 
Later  yet,  one  time  before. 
Sweetly  kissed  her  o'er  and  o'er ; " 
'^  See  tliat  shadow !  now  I  fear. 
Some  one  must  be  very  near^ 

Elrie  the  moon  in  sport  liath  made  it, 
And  slyly  on  the  grass  hath  laid  it " — 
Ah !  but  from  behind  the  |>ost, 
Some  one  glidetli,  light  as  ghost. 
Saying,  "  Now  fur  evrry  tear, 
Thou  art  doubly,  ddubly  dear." 

If  the  one  you  luved  had  said  it, 
If  i!i  dark  eyes  you  ha<l  rea«l  it, 
W'ouM  you  not  forget  the  pain 
He  had  caused  you,  in  your  gain  ? 
Notwitlistanding  all  your  fears, 
Notwithstanding  all  your  tears? 


THE  SHADOW. 

The  moonlight  sUde  aofUy  oTer  tlw  q 
hill-lops, 
Tracking  all  with  its  feotyiiiai  qf  |i 
The  forest,  the  Ibuntain,  the  meadav, 
copse, 
Had  borrowed  a  beaotj  untDlL 

In  the  tress  of  the  willow,  the  acphjm 
ressed. 
With  their  songB  making  taadU 
night. 
And  the  silken-leaved  lilj,  with  the 
on  its  breast. 
From  its  covert  blinked  oat  at  the  1 


Blithe  chirpings  rose  up 
sect  tlirong, 
And   the    whippowil 
glen; 
0 !  why  was  my  heart  so 
song? 
O !  why  did  the 


from  the  gfti 


toQchadi! 

f 


Long,  long,  had  I  listened  a 
hear, 
Down  the  slope  where  the  vi 
But  moments  seemed 
so  drear. 
And  I  sunk  on  the 


r 

lah 


But   tears    trickled  o*er  a 
with  hope. 
And    were    all    gathered 
smile. 
For  a  footstep  fell  lightlj  oo  the 
green  slope. 
And  a  shadow  fell  orertte 


CORA  MITCHELL  DOWNS. 


Cora  Mitchell  Downs  is  a  native  of  Shawangunk,  New  York,  and  is  now  residing 
at  Wyandotte,  Kansas.  She  was  educated  at  Poughkeepsie,  New  York,  and  while 
there,  at  school,  some  of  her  fugitive  pieces  attracted  considerable  attention  by  their 
pathos  and  tenderness.  She  afterward  removed  to  Fremont,  Ohio,  and  wrote  over 
the  signature  of  Cora,  for  the  Sandusky  Register  and  several  literary  journals.  She 
was  married,  at  Fremont,  January  first,  1857.  Since  her  marriage  her  pen  has  been 
quiet ;  the  wife's  and  mother's  duties  taking  precedence  of  literary  tastes  and  occu- 
pations. 


THE  OLD  ELM  TRER 

I  HAVE  many  blessed  memories 

Of  rock,  and  hill,  and  stream. 
Where  the  sunshine  used  to  linger. 

Like  a  fair  and  pleasant  dream ! 
Where  the  moonlight  came  with  silver 
steps. 

O'er  mossy  bank  and  lea, 
But  the  dearest  of  all  memories, 

Is  the  Old  Ehn  Tree  I 

I  lingered  there  in  childish  hours, 

To  watch  the  ripples  play — 
Beneath  its  feathery  branches  sat, 

And  idled  many  a  day ! 
And  there,  again,  in  later  years 

The  sunshine  of  my  glee 
Was  lost  amid  a  mist  of  tears, 

'Neath  the  Old  Elm  Tree ! 

And  there  are  none  to  love  me  now. 

As  in  the  days  of  yore ; 
My  mother  sleeps  a  dreamless  sleep, 

And  loves  and  smiles  no  more ! 
And  strangers  claim  the  pleasant  home 

Where  she  was  wont  to  be — 

They  even  call  the  ground  their  own, 

'Round  the  Old  Ehn  Tree  I 

(673 

43 


There  the  moonlight  falls  as  softly 

And  silently  as  then ; 
There  the  branches  droop  as  lowly 

And  silently  as  then  I 
Oh,  will  no  heart  be  sadder 

With  memories  of  me, 
When  ling'ring  'neath  thy  shadow, 

My  Old  Ehn  Tree  ? 

There  are  those  who  may  remember 

That  I  loved  the  quiet  shore. 
There     are     those   who     may    regret 
me, 

That  I  come  not^— evermore — 
When  the  autumn  winds  are  sighing. 

And  the  joys  of  summer  flee, 
That    I    come     not — with     the     twi- 
lights. 

To  the  Old  Elm  Tree ! 

They  cannot  rest  beside  it. 

Nor  feel  my  presence  there ; 
For  my  spirit  breathes  a  vesper 

Upon  the  silent  air. 
A  breath  of  poetry  and  flowers, 

A  song  of  bird  and  bee. 
Is  mingled  with  enchanted  hoars, 

And  the  Old  Ehn  Tree  I 


) 


674 


COUA    MITCHELL    DOWNS. 


^^ 


O !  the  gentle,  gentle  memories 

or  earlier,  liappier  years ! 
How  my  heart  goes  out  to  meet  them, 

lleyond  the  mist  of  tears ! 
And  down  u|ion  the  mossy  banks 

I  sit  again,  and  see 
How  the  moonlight  and  the  ripples  meet 

By  the  Old  £hn  Tree! 


THE  SPIRIT'S  CALL. 

WnT  thrill  like   harp-chords   'neath  the 

stormy  sweep 
Of  some  grand  master's  liand,  oh,  soul  of 

mine? 
Why  rouse  thee  from  thy  careless  dreams 

and  sleep, 
And  shake  thy  fettered  wings  with  strength 

divine? 

What  burning  wonls  from  human  lips  hath 

woke 
Thy  charmed  slumbers  in  a  single  hour? 
What  tones  of  high  command  could  thus '  Pouring  its  thrilling  noCeft  on  taflf^ 

in^o^^  So  thou,  my   spirit!    Ibid  tij  ^m 

The  palsied  pulse  of  years  to  deeds  of  wings. 

And  breathe  thy  life  out  ii  wili  lif 

there! 


On  a  high  purpose  stand,  and  froa 

height 
Gaze  out  upon  the  futore  &r  and  nr 
So  shall  thy  strength    renew  far  i 

flight. 
And  thy  cahn   fiuth   fike  pilWd 

endure. 

Tliough  far  beneath  Ue  gentle  lam 

trust. 
And  all  the  golden     dreaas  of  < 

days — 
Though  dearer  hopes  are  Ueediaf  i 

dust. 
Thou  wilt  not    torn   aside  thj  0b 

gaze. 

Perchance  an  arrow  frooi  a  bow  ibh 
Blay  strike  thj  soaring  wing  at  dv 

day; 
And   the   Pale    Angel    eome  wiA 

serene 
To  take  thy  meed,  thj  gkrioni  gjlfta 


What  then?  the  swan  its 
est  sings, 


power? 


Thy  pinions  bleed   and 
strife, 


Thou  know'st   thy  destiny — ^thy   hoiHS   is 

strong ; 
So  where  the  eternal  mountain-cliffs  arise, 
LiMve  thy  fair  dreams  in  burning  words  of  |  Beating  against  their  iroo  Inks  of  <■ 

song,  ;  While  golden  hills  Ioobb  np  is  fiirar  I 

Thy  memory  lettered  in  immortal  dyes.       And    in    the    distance    asoek    Ajf 

despair. 
Not    here,   my   spirit  I     fold   thine   eagle  i 


win;is, 


Chain«'d   to   the   nx^  of  pSl^  iK 


Winn  <:iitirring  clouds  of  coniing  ft-ars  in-j         thou! 

Itinii ;  .  Hencath    the    Lethean 

Til i  114'    «*yrie    svvk   'mid    loftier,    nobler  flows, 

thin^rs  Promethean    patience    on     Af 

I^ight  gh'ams  beyond — and  God  is  in  the  brow, 

storm !  And  thine— 4Ui  i 


ll 


SAMUEL  V.  MORRIS. 


Samuel  Y.  Morris,  who  wishes  to  be  recorded  as  a  Hoosier  ^  to  the  manner 
bom,"  was  bom  at  Indianapolis,  about  the  year  1835.  He  is  yet  a  resident  of  that 
city,  and  is  a  lawyer  by  profession.  He  has  contributed  to  the  Knickerbocker  maga- 
zine, to  the  Indiana  State  Journal,  and  other  "  Hoosier  "  papers. 


E  TRIBUS  UNUM. 

Upon  the  headland  Now, 
We  stand  and  gaze  upon  the  troubled  sea 
That  lashes  round  its  base.     The  heavy 

haze 
Of  dim  forgetfulness  hangs  like  a  cloud 
About  us,  and  with  eager  ken  we  strive 
To  pierce  its  misty  depths.     But  all  in 

vain. 

Still,  ever  and  anon,  a  wave  of  thought 

Comes  surging  in  from  out  the  gloom,  and 
oft 

In  this  tom  fragment  of  the  ocean  Past, 

We  recognize  the  joyous  wave  that  bore 

Us  'long  the  summer  sea  of  life,  when  Then 

Was  Now.     But  fast  it  hurries  on  far  in 

The  gloom  of  the  To  Be,  and  yet  again 

*Twill  meet  us,  when  To  Be  is  Now. 

And  thus  To  Be,  and  Is,  and  Was  are  one 

In  their  relations  to  our  lives.     The  soul 

Is  the  grand  reservoir  wherein  the  Past 

P^mpties  its  springs.     And  our  future  life 

Complete  or  faulty,  in  its  outward  show 

Is  but  our  present  inner  life  exposed. 

The  Tiist  we  may  deplore,  and  ought,  if 

lost. 
But  if  *tis  past  and  living,  be  content; 
For  it,  though  past,  may  in  its  offspring 

live. 


What  joys !  what  sorrows !  and  what  gilded 

dreams, 
Like  ivy  'round  the  fallen  oak,  still  ding 
With    living  tendrils    to   the  cold,  dead 

forms 
Of  by-gone  years!     The  soul  with  in- 

tumed  eye 
Full  gazmg  in  itself,  oft  sees  the  Past 
Reflected  there,  and  dreams  itself  away 
To  other  years,  and  'tis  not  well     The 

Past, 
All  vital  in  the  soul  in  its  effects, 
Is  a  great  prompter  of  eternal  thoughts ; 
But  when  the  soul  lives  in  the  Past,  oh, 

then 
The  Future  will  be  marred,  and  all  the 

thoughts 
Will  smell  of  other  years,  unless  they  pass 
Through  the  refining  fire  that  boms  and 

glows 
Within  the  ftimace  Now.    Then  let  the 

Past 
Live  in  the  soul,  the  soul  not  in  the  Past ! 
And  from  the  Past  and  Present,  fashion 

well 
The  Future,  so  that  when  the  Was  and  Is 
And  the  To  Come  in  Time  are  gone,  the 

soul 
May  fashion  out  of  Time  a  Fntore,  fair 
And  comely,  for  Eternity. 


(676) 


LUELLA  CLARK. 


LuELLA  Clark,  one  of  the  daughters  of  Illinoiis  who  oontributei  to  Ike  £« 
Repository  in  Cincinnati,  gives  promise  of  decided  excellence  in  metrical  "*"— f*^ 
She  is  a  teacher  in  the  North- Western  Female  College,  at  ETantton,  a  pka 
village  on  Lake  Michigan,  a  few  miles  from  Chicago. 


I  STOOD  BENEATH  THY  BOUGHS. 

I  STOOD  beneath  thy  boughs,  O  tree ! 

With  the  ^sunshine  all  above, 
While  a  bini  within  thy  shehering  leaves 

Sung  all  day  to  hii^  U>ve, 
And  faintly  f«!ll,  at  intt*r\-als, 

The  cooing  of  a  duvc. 

And  I  thought  beneath  thy  boughs,  O  tree! 

How  like  is  love  to  a  bird ; 
And  life  a  constant  summer,  where 

Its  music  shall  be  heard ; 
Alas !  I  thought,  whtm  winter  came, 

'*  How  like  is  love  to  a  bird ! " 

I  look  through  the  naked  boughs  afar, 

To  the  cahn  and  blessed  sky. 
And  lo!  a  clear,  unwavering  star 

Is  set,  serene  on  hi<;h ; 
And  I  think  how  like  Go<rs  love  that  star 

So  fair;  its  light  so  nigh. 


Throujrh  summer's  glow,  through  winter's 
gloom; 
Through  change,  and  chill,  and  pain  ; 
Throujrh  stonniest  hours  of  struggling  life, 

God*s  love  doth  still  remain  ; 
C)  Father,  \i%  httncoforth,  that  love 
Within  this  bosom  reign  ! 

(  676 


UP  THE  HILL  A-BEBRTD6G. 


*y- 


On  a  sanny  Bnminer 

Early  as  the  dew  y 
Up  the  hill  I  went 

Need  I  tell  you,  tell  joa  wkf  F 
Farmer  Davis  had 

And  it  happened  that  I 
On  such  sunny 

Up  the  hill  went 


Lonely  work  is  picking 

So  1  joined  her  oa  the  h3L 
**•  Jenny,  dear."  said  I,  "^ 

Quite  too  large  for 
So  we  staid^we  two*— lo  ill  i^ 

Jenny  talking-»I  wai 
Leading  where  the  wmj 

Picking  berries  op  the  UIL 


"This  \»  up-hiU 

«« So  is  life,"  said  I ;  « 
Climb  it  each  alooe^  or, 

AVill    you 
me?" 
Kedtler  than  the  kIwA;-^ 

Jenny's 
While,  without  dokj, 

"  I  wiU 


) 


WILLIAM  S.  PETERSON. 


William  S.  Peterson,  a  member  of  the  Iowa  Amiual  Conference  of  the  Meth- 
odist Episcopal  Church,  was  bom  in  Dearborn  county,  Indiana,  November  twenty- 
second,  1836.  He  has  written  for  the  LadM  Bepontory  and  other  periodicals  pub- 
lished under  the  auspices  of  the  diurch  to  which  he  belongs.  Mr.  Peterson  is  at 
present  stationed  at  Winterset,  Iowa. 


THE  FOREST  SPRING. 

In  the  joyous  reign  of  sunmier, 
When  the  southern  breezes  blow. 

O'er  the  wood-lands  and  the  meadows 
Phoebus  spreads  his  fiery  glow. 

And  the  blue-birds  in  the  orchard 
Warble  music  soft  and  low. 

To  the  greenwood  grove  I  hasten. 
And  with  lightsome  heart  I  sing: 

Give  to  me  the  sparkling  water 
That  is  bubbling  from  the  spring ; 

Give  me  water,  crystal  water, 
For  it  leaves  behind  no  sting  I 

0*er  me  wave  the  leafy  branches. 
In  the  softly  sighing  breeze, 

Which  is  playing,  like  a  lover. 
With  the  tresses  of  the  trees ; 

And  around  me,  in  the  clover. 
Hum  the  honey -hunting  bees. 

Mother  Earth  is  full  of  beauty, 
In  her  summer  glories  dressed; 

Here,  upon  her  lap  reclining. 
Like  an  infant,  will  I  rest, 

And  enjoy  the  healthful  current 
That  is  flowing  from  her  breast 

As  I  quaff  its  brimming  sweetness 
With  my  fever-heated  lips, 

I  would  not  exchange  one  crystal 
Drop  that  off  the  beaker  drips, 

For  the  brightest  liquid  riches 
That  the  bacchanalian  sips. 


Very  bright  and  pleasant  pictures 

Has  my  fancy  often  drawn 
Of  the  wild  deer  in  the  forest, 

Resting  here  beside  her  fawn. 
Drinking  from  the  limpid  streamlet, 

In  the  years  now  long  agone. 

Here  the  laughing  Indian  maiden 
Has  her  glowing  lips  immersed, 

And  the  haughty  forest  hunter 
Often  here  has  quenched  his  thirsty 

Ere  the  damning  '^fire-water" 
£[ad  the  red  man's  nature  cursed. 

But  old  Time  has  changed  the  scenery ; 

Earth  is  of  her  forests  shorn. 
And  the  Indian  wanders  westward, 

Spirit-broken  and  forlorn. 
For  his  Others'  lands  are  waving 

With  the  white  man's  golden  com. 

But  the  spring  is  ever  flowing, 
Through  the  change  of  eveiy  year, 

Just  as  when  the  Indian  maiden 
Quaffed  its  waters  pure  and  olear, 

Just  as  when  across  its  boecmi 
Eell  the  shadow  of  the  deer. 


(«77) 


On  the  mossy  margin 

I  my  simple  numbers  sin^— 
Hie  glad  heart's  ^ntaneoos  tribate 

In  a  song  of  rapture  brin|^ 
Drinking,  in  this  crystal  Watsr, 

^Health  to  all  who  love  the  spring!" 


WILLIAM   D.   HOWELLS. 


William  D.  ITowklls  was  bora  at  Blartinsville,  Belmont  oountj;OliiOviB  tfe  I 
1837.  HiA  father  being  a  printer  and  publisher,  he  learned  the  piintmg  bMMi 
the  paternal  oiii(*e  at  Hamilton,  Butler  countj,  whither  his  parents  mored  in  1' 
Mr.  Ilowells  has  boon  reco<];nized  &s  a  writer  about  six  yeani.  lie  hma  been  cddon 
connected  with  the  Cincinnati  Gazette^  and  with  the  Ohio  Siaie  Jayrmai,  and  hnf 
tributed  poems  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly  magazine,  and  to  the  Saiurdojf  J^^tm^  1 
York,  and  is  now  a  regular  correspondent  of  the  Ohio  Farmer.  Some  of  kit  p 
8k(^tches  arc  quite  e{[ual  in  grace  of  conception  and  individualitj  of  tmtmcac  m 
of  his  poems.  His  characteristics  as  a  poet  are  so  well  described  in  a  nociee  of 
volume  previously  mentioned  in  the^e  pages — ^'^  Poems  of  Two  Friendfl*— in  tls  i 
urday  Press,  that  we  quote  it : 

Mr.  Ilowells  is  a  man  of  gi'iiiufi.    Wc  do  bim  jurticc ;  we  do  not  paj  him  a 
gcDiuB  is  not,  iDdefd,  of  the  hlKbeet  order ;  but  it  is  genius,  neverthelevk     A  striki^ 
genius  in  this  poet,  is  the  intense  compression  of  his  style.    In  his  lieitiir  poeaw  thcR  is  as 
detail — nothing  of  the  agony  of  inefficient  art.    Knowing  that  the  best  rlnthli^  ftr  % 
thought  is  nudity,  he  bas  ordained  bis  thought  to  be  more  than  its  iijuiMiiuii.     TUb  ii  Ih 
attitude  of  genius.    Ills  pictures  are  drawn  with  few  strokea.    He  mjm  all  in 
direcL    Along  the  chain  of  bis  thought  play  keen  lightning-jets  of  poetic 
the  dark  places  of  the  human  heart,  as  lightning  illumines  the  midnight  ikj. 


DRIFTING  AWAY. 

As  one  whom  sea  wan!  winds  beat  from  the 
shore, 
Sees  all  the  land  go  from  him  out  of  sight. 
And  waits  with  doubtful  heart  the  stooi>- 
ing  night, 
In  some  frail  shallop  without  sail  or  oar, 

Drifting  away ! 

I  rid«!  forlorn  upon  the  sea  of  life, 

Fur  out  and  farther  into  unknown  deeps, 
]><)wn  the  dark  gulfs  and  up  the  dizzy 
steeps, 
Wiiirled  in  the  tumult  of  the  ocean  strife, 

Drifting  away ! 


Like  faint,  faint  lights,  I 
liefs 
Fade  from  me  one  bj 

more; 
Old  loves,  old  hopes  Be 
shore. 
Wept  all  about  hj  ghoete  ef 
griefs, 


iee  mjM 


! 


O  never  more  the  happj 
With  the  fiiir  light  of 

eyes ; 
U|)on  iXi  loftiest  peak  the 

And  night  is  in  the 


(678) 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    D.    HOWELLS. 


679 


I  rise  and  stretch  my  longing  arms  in  vain, 
And  fold  in  void  embraces  on  my  breast 
The  nothing  clasp'd,  and  with  dim  fears 
oppressed, 
Cry  to  the  shores  I  shall  not  see  again, 

Drilling  away  I 


THE  MOVERS. 

Parting  was  over  at  last,  and  all  the  good- 
byes had  been  spoken. 

Up  the  long  hill-side  the  white-tented  wag- 
on moved  slowly. 

Bearing  the  mother  and  children,  while  on- 
ward before  them  the  father 

Trudged  with  his  gun  on  his  arm,  and  the 
faithful  house-dog  beside  him. 

Grave  and  sedate,  as  if  knowing  the  sor- 
rowful thoughts  of  his  master. 

April  was  in  her  prime,  and  the  day  in  its 

dewy  awaking ; 
Like  a  great  flower,  afar  on  the  crest  of 

the  eastern  wood-land, 
Goldenly  bloomed  the  sun,  and  over  the 

beautiful  valley. 
Dim  with  its  dew  and  its  shadow,  and  bright 

with  its  dream  of  a  river. 
Looked  to  the  western  hills,  and  shone  on 

tlie  humble  procession, 
Paining  with  splendor  the  children's  eyes, 

and  the  heart  of  the  mother. 

Beauty,  and  fragrance,  and  song  filled  the 

air  like  a  palpable  presence. 
Sweet  was  the  smell  of  the  dewy  leaves 

and  the  flowers  in  the  wild- wood. 
Fair  the  long  reaches  of  sun  and  shade  in 

the  aisles  of  the  forest. 
Glad  of  the  spring,  and  of  love,  and  of 

morning,  the  wild  birds  were  singing ; 


Jays  to  each  other  called   harshly,  then 

mellowly  fluted  together ; 
Sang  the  oriole  songs  as  golden  and  gjBij 

as  his  plumage ; 
Penisvely  piped  the  querulous  quails  their 

greetings  unfrequent, 
While,  on  the  meadow-elm,  the  meadow- 
lark  gushed  forth  in  music, 
Rapt,  exultant  and  shaken,  with  the  great 

joy  of  his  singing ; 
Over  the  river,  loud-chattering,  aloft  in  the 

air,  die  king-fisher. 
Hung,  ere  he  dropped,  like  a  bolt  in  the 

water  beneath  him ; 
Gossiping,  out  of  the  bank,  flew  myriad 

twittering  swallows ; 
And  in  the  boughs  of  the  sycamore  quai^ 

reled  and  clamored  the  blackbirds. 

Never  for  these  things  a  moment  halted 
the  movers,  but  onward. 

Up  the  long  hill-side  the  white  tented  wag- 
on moved  slowly. 

Till,  on  the  summit,  that  overlooked  all  the 
beautifiil  valley. 

Trembling  and  spent,  the  horses  came  to  a 
standstill  unbidden ; 

Then  from  the  wagon  the  mother  in  silence 
got  down  with  her  children, 

Came,  and  stood  by  the  father,  and  rested 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Long  together  they  gazed  on  the  beaatifal 
valley  before  them ; 

Looked  on  the  well-known  fields  that 
stretched  away  to  the  wood-lands, 

Where,  in  the  dark  lines  of  green,  showed' 
the  milk-white  crest  of  the  dogwood, 

Snow  of  wild  plums  in  bloom,  and  crim- 
son tints  of  the  red-bud ; 

Looked  on  the  pasture-fields  where  the  cat- 
tle were  lazily  grazing — 

Softly,  and  sweet,  and  thin,  came  the  faint, 
far  notes  of  the  cow-bells ; 

Looked  on  the  oft-trodden  lanes,  with  their 
elder  and  blackberry  borders, 


680 


WILLIAM   D.   HOWELLS. 


PM 


Looked  on  the  orchard,  a  bloomj  sea,  with 

its  billows  of  blossoms. 
Fair  was  the  scene,  yet  suddenly  strange 

and  all  unfamiliar, 
Like  as  the  faces  of  friends,  when  the  word 

of  farewell  has  been  spoken. 
Long  together  they  gazed ;  then  at  la^t  on 

the  little  log-cabin — 
Home  for  so  many  years,  now  home  no 

longer  forever — 
Rested  their  tearless  eyes  in  the  silent  rap- 
ture of  anguish. 
Up  on  the  morning  air,  no  column  of  smoke 

from  the  chimney 
Wavering,  silver  and  azure,  rose,  fading 

and  brightening  ever ; 
Shut  was  the  door  where  yesterday  morn- 
ing the  children  were  playing, 
Lit  with  a  gleam  of  the  sun  the  window 

stared  up  at  them  blindly. 
Cold  was  the  hearth-:itone  now,  and  the 

place  was  forsaken  and  empty. 
Empty?  Ah  no!  but  haunted  by  thronging 

and  tenderest  fancies, 
Sad  recollections  of  all  that  had  ever  been, 

of  sorrow  or  gladness. 

Once  more  they  sat  in  the  glow  of  the  wide 

red  fire  in  the  winter, 
Once  more  they  sat  by  the  door  in  the  cool 

of  the  still  summer  evening. 
Once  more  the  mother  seemed  to  be  sing- 
ing her  babe  there  to  slumber. 
Once   more  the  father  In.'held   her  weep 

o*er  the  child  that  was  dying, 
Once  more  the  place  was  i)Copled  by  all 

th<»  Past's  sorrow  and  gladness ! 
NcitliiT  might  speak  for  the  thoughts  that 

come  crowding  their  hearts  so. 
Till,  ill  their  ignonint  sorrow  aloud,  the 

(•liil(ln*n  lamcntc<l ; 
Then  was  the  sp**ll  of  silence  dissolved,  and 

x\\v  fathrr  and  mother 
Burst  into  tears,  and  enihnieed,  and  turned 

their  dim  eyes  to  the  westward. 


BEAa 


SoMKTDiXQ  lies  in  the 
Over  against  mj  own  ; 

The  windows  are  lit  with 
Of  candles,  burning 

Untrimmed,  and  all  aflare 

In  the  ghastly  silence 


People  go  by  the  dcxw. 

Tiptoe,  holding  their  breadi. 
And  hush  the  talk  that  thejr 

Lest  they  should  waken 
That  is  awake  ail  night 
There  in  the  candlelight ! 

The  cat  upon  the  stain 
Watches  with  flamj  ej« 

For  the  sleepy  one  who  ehal 
Let  her  go  steating  hj; 

She  softly,  softly  pum. 

And  claws  the  banistera. 


held  M 


The  bird  from  out  its 
Breaks  with  a  sudden 

That  stabs  the  sense  like  a 
The  hound  the  whole 

Howls  to  tlie  moonless  skj. 

So  far,  and  starry,  and 


THE  POET'S 

The  Robin  sings  i 
The  cattle  slan 

Sedate  and  gmve. 
And  fragiant 

They  listen  to  the 
The  wise-looking. 

And  they  never 
Of  all  the  Robfai 


•it       'v    tl 


I 


.•^. 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM   D.    HOWBLLS. 


6«1 


THE  BOBOLINKS  ARE  SINGING. 

Out  of  its  fragrant  heart  of  bloom — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
Out  of  its  fragrant  heart  of  bloom, 
The  ^pie-tree  whispers  to  the  room, 
'^  Why  art  thou  but  a  nest  of  gloom, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing  ?  " 

The  two  wan  ghosts  of  the  chamber  there — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
The  two  wan  ghosts  of  the  chamber  there 
Cease  in  the  breath  of  the  honejed  air. 
Sweep  from  the  room  and  leave  it  bare, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

Then  with  a  breath  so  chill  and  slow — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
Then  with  a  breath  so  chill  and  slow, 
That  freezes  the  blossoms  into  snow. 
The  haunted  room  makes  answer  low. 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

I  know  that  in  the  meadow  land 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
I  know  that  in  the  meadow  land 
The  sorrowful,  slender  elm-trees  stand, 
And  the  brook  goes  bj  on  the  other  hand. 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

"  But  ever  I  see,  in  the  brawling  stream — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
But  ever  I  see  in  the  brawling  stream 
A  maiden  drowned  and  floating  dim. 
Under  the  water,  like  a  dream, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

"  Buried,  she  lies  in  the  meadow-land  I 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
Buried,  she  lies  in  the  meadow-land. 
Under  the  sorrowful  elms  where  thej stand ; 
Wind,  blow  over  her  soft  and  bland, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 


**  O  blow,  but  stir  not  the  ghostlj  thing — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing  I 
0  blow,  but  sdr  not  the  ghostly  thing 
The  farmer  saw  so  heavily  swing 
From  the  elm,  one  merry  mom  of  Spring, 

While  the  bobolinks  were  singing. 

"  O  blow,  and  blow  away  the  bloom — 

The  bobolinks  are  singmg ! 
0  blow,  and  blow  away  the  bloom 
That  sickens  me  in  my  heart  of  gloom, 
That  frightens  my  ghosts  away  from  their 
room, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing ! " 


SUMMER  DEAD. 

All  the  long  August  afternoon. 

The  little  drowsy  stream 
Whispers  a  melancholy  tune, 
As  if  it  dreamed  of  June 

And  whispered  in  its  dream. 

The  thistles  show  beyond  the  brook 
Dust  on  their  down  and  bloom. 

And  out  of  many  a  weed-grown  nook 

The  aster-flowers  look 

With  eyes  of  tender  gloom. 

The  silent  orchard  aisles  are  sweet 
With  smell  of  ripening  fruit 

Through  the  sear  grass,  in  shy  retreat. 

Flutter,  at  coming  feet. 
The  robins  strange  and  mute. 

There  is  no  wind  to  stir  the  leaves, 
The  harsh  leaves  overhead ; 

Only  the  querulous  cricket  grieves, 

And  shrilling  locust  weaves 
A  song  of  summer  dead. 


i» » 


ALBERT  BARNITZ. 


Albert  Barnitz  ifl  a  native  of  Bedford  county,  PennflylTanm,  w. 
on  the  tenth  day  of  ]\Iarch,  1833,  but  claima  to  be  a  **  Buckeye," 
moved  to,  and  settled  permanently  in,  Crawford  (*ounty,  Ohio,  when  he 
In  1857,  Mr.  Baniitz  published  a  volume  of  poems*  at  CincinnatL     Mr. 
now  a  teacher  of  Elocution  and  student  at  Law  in  Cleveland. 


And  the  beautiful  bird*  ne'er  dtt^ 
flee  us. 
When  we  met  in  their  fomil  hum 
For  still  the  dtfpths  of  this  atadj  pi 

Of  thi.<  claasic  realniy 
With  the  rapturoiu^ 
love, — 
A  love  tliat  there  abounded ! 

The  skies  they  were  alwajs  bkw  ipi 

us! — 
The  pure,  mild,  benatifbl  Am§1 
Whence  we  thought  the  far^l 

sembled  to  love  ua. 


LOVE  ON  THE  LYLAND-LEA. 

It  was  long  ago,  on  an  upland-level,— 

On  a  shadowy  upland-lawn, 
That  a  free,  proud  youth  did  delight  to 
revel 
With  a  sweet,  glad,  bright-oyed  fawn ! 
Ah !  a  sweet,  glad,  bright-eyed  fawn  was , 
she! 
A  pure,  and  a  lovely  being ! 
Who  roamed  with  the  lad  on  the  upland- 
lea, 
No  eyes,  but  their  own  eyes,  seeing ! 

Looked  down  from  their 
The  {rni.id^l.1  trees,  by  the  moM  madei^^j  ^  ^^^  landscape 

wary,  |     ^  dreiimv.  dim  Ideal ! 

«y  moss  and  the  mounta.n-vine.-         ,  ^^,,^.,^^  ^^^  guardian  moontaiM* 
AVhose  trunks  bore  names  far-fumtd  in      y,^^^  ^^  ^^^^  pleMuie 

storv. 
Would  their  leafy  heads  incline  I 
TIh'v  would  bt^nd  their  venhuit  branches 
low, 
And  hrcatiiloss,  list  all  sjwken 
Bv  the  vouthful  pair  who  sat  below 
KxrlianjrinjT  many  a  token ! 


Th<*  tlowors  looked  up,  and  they  smiled  to 

scp  us, — 
The  imiotMMit  littli.*  flow<*rs ! 


Ah!  sweet  was  the  phwe, 
mantio, — 
The  place  on  the  apiand-leni 
Where,  truant  aikr  Irooi   the 

dan  tic, 


Strolled  my  dark-eyed 
Exchanging  many  a  plc^gg  of  bra. 

And  many  a  ghuiee  of 
Till  the  grand  old  oaks,  • 

Forgot  their  aged  aadneas! 


•  M}>Uc  DelTioft.    ClndDiutl:  ▲.  WatMm,  1867.  Oi|  pp. : 

(  682) 


1850-60.] 


ALBERT    BARNITZ. 


683 


Yes  1  the  grand  old  trees,  long,  sedate  and 
sober, — 
Sedate,  and  grave,  and  gloomy  I 
Forgetful,  at  length,  of  their  life's   Oc- 
tober, 
Awhile  grew  gay  and  bloomy ! 
For   they  answered   low   to  the  wooing 
winds, 
In  a  soft  melodious  measure. 
Till,  'roused  by  the  mirth  of  their  whis- 
pered minds. 
Each  leaf  was  a  tremor  of  pleasure  I 

How   happy   were   we   on   this    upland- 
level  ! — 
On  this  shadowy  upland-lawn  I 
When  youthful  and  free  we  delighted  to 
revel — 
Myself  and  my  dark-eyed  fawn ! 
Ah !  many  and  many  a  lonesome  day. 
Have  I  passed,  since  my  gleeful  child- 
hood! 
And  repent  now,  that  ever  I  came  away 
From  this  shadowy  upland- wild  wood ! 


TO  IRENE. 

In  the  cheerless  gloom  of  my  silent  room, 

I  am  sitting  alone,  Irene, 
While  the  frozen  rain  on  my  window-pane 
With  a  sorrowful  cadence  comes  drifting, 

amain. 
As  the  merciless  winds  of  the  night  con- 
strain, 
And  I'm  thinking  of  thee,  Irene  I 


Yes !  my  thoughts  take  flight,  through  the 
dismal  night, 
To  the  beautiful  home,  Irene, 
Where,  a  stranger-guest,  at  the  kind  be- 
hest 
Of  her  whom  the  loveliest  charms  invest, 
I  was  welcomed  to  more  than  the  tongue 
confessed. 
Or  my  heart  dared  hope,  Irene, 

O,  the  kind  regard  which  the  fair  award, 

I  can  never  forget,  Irene ! 
And  a  nameless  spell,  like  the   mystic 

knell 
Which  is  bom  in  the  breast  of  the  ocean- 
shell. 
From  the  innermost  depths  of  my  heart 
will  swell 
With  the  memory  of  thee,  Irene ! 

And  beaming  afar,  like  a  rising  star. 

Is  the  Artist's  hope,  Irene  I 
Through  the  lonely  night,  while  its  rays 

invite, 
I  will  struggle  along  to  that  distant  light, 
That  its  beautiful  splendor  may  shed  de- 
light 
On  the  mate  of  my  choice,  Irene. 

And  may  I  not  deem  that  my  passionate 
dream 
Holds  the  essence  of  truth,  Irene  ? 
Then  the  rain  may  beat,  and  the  driveling 

sleet 
Come  drifUng  along  in  a  frozen  sheet, 
But  my  heart  broods  a  melody  low  and 
sweet 
That  I'd  breathe  to  but  one,  Irene  I 


¥*^ 


EMMA  ALICE  BROWNE. 


)< 


Emma  Alice  Browne  was  born  in   Cecil,  Maryland,  od   the   twcntj-iftk  < 
December,  1840.     Her  father,  who  was  a  member  of  the  l£aiylaod 
the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  died  when  she  was  fire  yean  of 
her  poetical  gifl  from  him.     Miss  Browne  is  a  blood  relative  (on 
Felicia  Hemans,  and  can  be  said  to  have  been  bom  a  rhymestery  as  ahe 
before  she  could  commit  them  to  paper,  dictating  them  to  a  plajmal 
start  of  the  poetess  in  the  chirographic  art. 

Miss  Browne  has  contributed  to  various  periodicals ;  among  odien,  to  the 
Journal,  JBHoomington  (Illinois)  Pantography  Saturday  Eetning 
New  York  Ledger,  Graham's  Magazine,  and  the  Metho^Mt 
Baltimore.  The  gifted  editor  of  the  latter  publication.  Rev.  E.  Y.  Reeoe.  wm  d 
first  editor  who  encouraged  her  talent  for  poetry.  Miss  Browne  is  not  afiaid  af  m 
of-door  exercise.  She  is  an  excellent  shot,  passionately  fond  of  rambles  ia  A0  ia 
woods  and  near  laughing  waters.  She  lives  an  impulsive,  robuat  tile, 
by  all  as  a  girl  ^  with  no  nonsense  about  her,"  such  as  ^  wasting  the 
and  fretting  her  round,  dimpled  face  into  wrinkles  od  aooooat  of 
spirit." 

Her  early  home  was  on  the  Susquehanna  River,  at  the  head  of 
and  romantic  region,  full  of  beauty  and  the  inspiration  of  poetiy 
shall  say  that  the  bold  features  of  massive  rocks,  towering  forests  and 
may  not  have  fostered  her  genius  and  had  much  to  do  in  the  creatkn  of 
duct  ions  ? 

Miss  Browne  has  for  some  time  resided  at  Bloomington,  Tlli*wi|f^ 
taking  up  her  abode  m  St.  Louis,  Missouri.     Her  poetry  u  siniple 
the  specimens  given  will  show. 


bfllpa 


ALONE. 

TiiKRE  id  a  sound  in  all  the  land 
Of  tlu*  wind  and  the  falling  rain. 

And  a  wild  sea  breaking  on  dead  white  sand 
With  a  desolate  cry  of  |Mun, 

As  if  its  mighty  and  terrible  heart 
Were  heaved  with  a  human  ymn ! 


I  stand  alone,  with  the  wind 

A!>  nuiny  a  poet  hath  flood, 
Soul-Ut  with  the  beautifid  i 

And  a  sense  of  a 
But  feeling,  because  of  the 

My  life  were  written  ia  blood; 
And  my  soul  keeps  sobbing  a 

Like  a  brook  in  aa 


worii^aV 


(684) 


»-.'«■- 


1850-CO.] 


EMMA    A.    BROWNE. 


685 


Blow  wind!  blow  wind  I  fall,  desolate  rain, 

And  cry,  oh!  sorrowful  sea, 
To  the  dumb,  dead  sand  thj  merciless  pain, 

For  such  has  mj  heart  for  me ! 
Pitiless !  pitiless !  homeless,  and  pitiless ! 

Such  18  the  world  to  me  I 


THE  CONQUERORS. 

Who  are  kings,  and  who  are  heroes  ? 

Who  are  victors  till  the  last  ? 
They  who  with  unfaltering  cooragey 

Quell  the  lions  of  the  past. 

They  w^ho  go  from  town  and  village, 
From  the  smithy  and  the  farm, 

Nobler  for  the  sign  of  labor. 

Branded  on  each  stalwart  arm ; — 

They  who  go  fh)m  mart  and  city, 
From  the  rush  and  roar  of  trade, 

Gk)  to  grapple  with  the  future. 

Strong  of  soul,  and  undismay'd; — 

They  who  from  the  toiling  present, 
Look  not  back  through  mist  of  tears, 

But  across  the  coming  harvest 
Of  the  golden-fruited  years  ;— 

They  who  nurse  a  noble  scorning, 
E'en  in  thought  to  be  a  slave — 

They  who  hailed  the  glorious  morning. 
Of  the  arts  that  keep  us  brave  I 

Deeming  all  men  are  bom  equal, 
Only  by  high  deeds  made  best, 

They  who  strive  to  win  the  sequel, 
That  shall  crown  the  nations  bless'd; — 

They  who  with  their  great  endeavors, 
Build  a  never-dying  name— 

They  whose  thunder-bolts  of  genius 
Wrap  this  living  age  in  flame ! 


These  are  kings  and  conquerors  glorious, 
From  the  lowliest  haunts  of  men. 

Climbing  onto  heights  victorious 
By  the  toil  of  press  and  pen ! 

These,  the  winners  of  true  knowledge, 
Strong  to  battle  for  the  right, 

From  the  workshop  and  the  college. 
Striding  full-armed  to  the  fight ! 

Blessed  be  ye !  brawny  workers. 
In  the  mighty  fields  of  thought, 

Bless'd  your  planting  and  your  reaping^ 
When  the  harvest  shall  be  brought  I 

Go  out,  victors,  late  and  early — 
Sow  the  fiery  seed  of  thought ! 

Down  by  rivers  still  and  pearly, 

Shall  your  perfect  sheaves  be  brought; 

When  the  world's  great  heart  sublimely, 
Throbs  a  full  calm  as  of  yore, 

And  beside  immortal  waters 

Angels  dwell  with  men,  once  more. 


AURELIA. 

The  water-lilies  float  the  way 
The  tide  floweth— 

So,  to-day, 

Down  purple  memories  far  and  dim. 

My  happy  heart  doth  follow  him, 
The  way  he  goeth ! 

The  sunset's  crimson  cup,  o'erfull. 
Stains  the  blue  river 
Beautiful ! 
So  is  my  nature's  high  divine. 
In  his  rare  nature's  costly  wine, 
Bose-tinged  forever  I 


HATTIE  TYNG. 


The  parents  of  Hattie  Tyng  were  both  primitive  New 
clerg}-tnan,  and  professor  in  one  of  the  academies  in  that  sectioii.  Hattie  wm  bon  a 
We.st  Mills,  Maine,  on  the  twentj-sixth  of  January,  1841.  She  is 
voting  her  time  and  energies  to  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  as  she  had 
which  resulted  in  a  thorough  English  education,  with  several  modem  languvge^  He 
particular  forte  seems  to  be  the  sense  of  comparison — ^readily  percemng  the 
blunces  in  the  great  activities  and  events  of  individual  or  national 
her  fine  genius  expresses  in  graphic  and  beautiful  forma  and  i 
tions  have  appeared  in  the  Home  Journal,  Columbia  (S.  C.)  Oourami^  the 
and  Chicago  papers,  with  some  others.  Miss  Tyng  is  a  popular  teacher  im,  the  H^ 
School  in  the  village  of  her  residence,  Columbus,  Wisconsin. 


RUINS. 

Over  sea  and  over  desert, 

WniHrring  many  a  weary  mile, 
By  the  lordly  banks  of  Ganges — 

By  the  softly  flowing  Nile  ; 
Travelers  wander,  seeking  ever 

Ruins  which  may  tales  unfold. 
Of  the  rude,  barbaric  splendor 

Of  the  mystic  days  of  old. 

And  they  watch  with  stniinini;  vision- 

"Watch  a*?  pilj^rims  at  a  shrine — 
For  a  jjliinj>se  of  those  lmlt-hi«lden 

(a-itl^Ml  cnijrs  alonj;  the  Rhine. 
()'<T  all  ancit-nt  lands  thfV  wander, 

KvtT  with  a  nrw  deliifht, 
Srrkiii'j  niiii^  wlii<'li  an*  sacn^l 

To  ilit'ir  wonder-lovinjr  Mght. 

But  tlicv  know  not  that  around  them, 
Clo<e  at  home,  an*  ruins  spread. 


Strange  as  tho^e  that  ^impeei  gi?e 
Of  the  ages  that  are  dead. 

Crumbling  fane  or  fallen  tnnel^ 
Ruined  mosque  or 

Toarh<*s  not  the  solemn 
Which  we  learn  bat  to 


Every  where  around 

Ruined  lives  and  broken 
Wrecks  of  manliood  far 

Than  these  fragments  of  hut 
And  we  need  not  go  to  aeel 

Far  from  our  own  native 
For,  unnoted  and  fbnaken, 

Near  us  many  ruins  stani 


But  whf*n  eves  and  hearts 

Gazing  on  them  comes  the 
That,  thou<;li  corniced  aisle  and 

S(H>ii  rliall  crumble  into 
Still  these  dari^ened  hnmu 

All  rebuilt  shall  one  day 
Beauteous  fanes  and  Dohle 

WiUiin  God*s 
(  686) 


ELLA  CALDWELL. 


The  poems  of  Miss  Caldwell  have  been  mostly  contributions  to  the  LouitviUe  (Kj.) 
Democrat,  and  have  been  extensively  copied  by  the  newspapers  throughout  the  coun- 
try. Her  nom  de  plumes  ^  Leila,**  has  become  famihar  as  household  words.  Ella 
Caldwell  was  bom  in  the  city  of  Louisville,  Kentucky,  on  the  sixteenth  of  April, 
1842.  Her  father,  James  G.  Caldwell,  shortly  afterward  removed  to  Jefferson ville, 
Indiana,  where  he  is  a  merchant  Fortunately  the  circumstances  of  Miss  Caldwell's 
parents  enabled  them  to  give  their  daughter  an  education  at  home,  and  culture  and 
accomplishments  upon  a  broad  and  firm  basis.  She  resides  at  home,  surrounded  by 
affectionate  relations,  an  admiring  and  appreciative  circle  of  select  friends,  and  all 
that  would  seem  to  render  hers  the  life  of  the  poet.  Miss  Caldwell's  poems  are  of 
the  school  of  the  affections,  but  there  is  a  growing  strength  and  higher  purpose  per- 
ceptible in  her  later  efforts,  though  all  are  marked  by  a  lingering  sweetness  of  rhythm, 
a  fine  poetic  fancy,  not  more  surprising  than  delightful  to  find  in  the  writings  of  one 
so  young.  Her  poetry  frequently  reaches  the  tenderest  pathos,  and  sometimes  rises 
to  a  "  fine  frenzy,"  but  is  always  sweetly  rhythmicaL 


JUDGE  NOT. 

Judge  not,  judge  not !  Ye  may  not  know 

The  strength  of  passion's  power ; 
Remember  that  an  angel  fell 

In  Eden's  sinless  bower ; 
And  still  the  tempter's  syren  voice, 

In  accents  sofl  and  sweet, 
Mi^ht  hire  a  soul  as  pure  as  light 

To  worship  at  his  feet, 

Judi^e  not,  judge  not !  The  erring  heart. 

Though  dim'd  and  stained  by  sin — 
Thougli  lost  to  every  good  without — 

Has  God's  pure  light  within. 
Judge  not,  judge  not !  untempted  one ; 

Stand  not  aloof,  apart — 
Remember  that  God's  image  lives 

In  every  human  heart  I 


Judge  not,  judge   not!   Although   these 
sins 

May  be  as  dark  as  night, 
They  may  have  bravely  warred,  yet  fell 

A  victim  m  the  fight 
Judge  not  I  The  marshaled  hosts  of  sin 

Are  fierce,  and  dark,  and  bold ; 
And  yet  full  many  a  gentle  lamb 

Has  wandered  to  their  fokL 

Judge  not,  judge  not !  or  coldly  pass 

A  fallen  brother  by ; 
A  smile  from  virtue  would  be  like 

A  beacon  light  on  high. 
Judge   not,  judge   not!   Our   barks   are 
all 

Upon  the  same  sea  cast ; 
Some  sink  amid  the  angry  wavee. 

Some  reach  the  shore  at  last  I 


(6«7) 


LIZZIE  O.  BEEBE. 


LrzziE  G.  Beebe  was  born,  in  1842,  at  Hartford,  Tmmball  oountj,  OUo,  vbi 
she  still  re^dcs.  Iler  poetry  has  appeared  chieflj  in  the  Ohio  Farwmr^  and  W 
**  tender  grace  "  and  pensive  sweetness  of  its  own.  The  two  little  poeoM  that  ibUo 
fnvorably  illustrate  the  peculiarities  of  lier  taste  and  manner. 


DAY'S  DEPARTURE. 

On  !  bright  and  glorionfl  was  the  hand 

That  !«h)wly  led  away, 
Throuf^h  the  gemmed  doorway  of  the  West, 

The  lingering,  blushing  Day. 

They  met  upon  the  threshold — 
Bright  l>ay  and  dewy  Night — 

And  Day  gave  to  lier  sister^s  care 
Tlie  earth  so  green  and  bright. 

*'  Sing  g«»ntly,  oh !  my  sister  Night, 

Tliy  soothing  song  of  rest ; 
Sliadow  it  with  thy  curtains  dim. 

And  told  it  to  thy  bn»ast. 

*•  Hnvithe  gently  on  the  waving  trees, 

The  wild  hinl  in  its  nest. 
And  soothfi  the  wearv,  restless  child. 

Upon  its  mother's  breast. 

"  Ki^^i  all  tht»  tender,  meek-oved  flowers 

TliJit  in  thy  shadows  we«*p: 
Oh  I  with  tliv  snf\r«it  niunnurs  hush 

y\\  darling  onrs  asleep. 

"  Atnl  the  raliM  star-rv«'s  will  look  down 
Willi  tht'ir  pun'  and  <ln'amy  light. 

To  >rr  how  p«'ai"«'fiilly  thi'  earth 
Sleep-^  in  lliy  arms,  oh  Night  I" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  OLD  ELIC-TRa 

3teal  gently,  sanshine,  througk  its  frM 
ful  boughs, 

And  paint  its  shadow  as  j«  did  of  yon 
And  I  will  dream  a  links  fiiirj  fim 

Is  playing  still  beside  the 


Float   softly,  breezes,  *mid  Ae  iRBbfia^ 

leaves, 

And  make  the  shadows  flicker,  m  of  oU ; 

And  I  will  dream  my  fingen  wander  «tilL 

Witli  sofl  caresses,  through  her  CKrk  sf 

gold. 

But  ah !  the  sunshine  ooraes  not  st  mr  lal: 

To  my  lone  heart  there 
owy  trace 
Of  the  hrirrht  head,  all  goM< 

Of  thesweet  voiee, and  the  lost Migel  Ckc 

Beneath  ihr  Irnj-nnd  Traiiny  bladrr  rfpirt 
They  laid  tht*  «unshine  of  nj  hfr  aw«r; 

For  a^  the  shadow  rests  apon  her  grave. 
So  lies  a  shadow  on  mj 


And  ypt,  I  know,  my  darliDg  has 

To  th(*  bright  realm  bejond  di 

dark  sf*a ; 

But  my  {»oor  heart  will  feel  ttat 

sh'i'ps. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  OH 


(  6H8  ) 


« 


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•r. 


2044  On   453  842 


This  book  shonld  bo  roturaod 
ihe  Libnu-7  on  or  b«roro  the  tast  i 
Btsmped  balov. 

A  One  of  live  (>eiit8  a  day  ia  mcoj 
by  r&t«ltLttiK  it  beyoDil  Ihe  Bped 
time. 

FleatM  r«tQrn  promptly. 


m 


■wrr^ 


STALVbV 

CHAR 


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